Dirty Things
by hiding duh
Summary: Sylar/Claire, Claire/Nathan. Story of a boy and his toy.
1. Chapter 1

Probably a farewell story. Show, you and I are fucking done professionally. [/Christian Bale]

**Title**: Dirty Things  
**Fandom**: Heroes  
**Characters/Pairings**: Sylar/Claire, [Claire/Nathan], Angela, Noah, Peter  
**Summary**: Story of a boy and his toy.  
**Rating**: R, eventually.  
**Spoilers**: Through 3x25 (season finale).  
**Word Count**: 1300 for this part.  
**Notes**: My first attempt at a multi-chaptered fic, and I apologize if it's super horrible. I'm still sort of in denial.

* * *

*

He remembers the toy Ma gave him for his fifth birthday. A shiny little car he clutched in his fingers, carried in his pocket, nuzzled at bedtime.

No, that's not right. It was a book. And it was a present from his father. He remembers loving it. More than anything. Remembers how fast he could race it over kitchen tables and hardwood floors. And how he lost it at a diner—

_Book_. It was a book.

"What'd you give me for my fifth birthday?" he asks, rubbing one eye. His nail scratches the corner of his eyelid. He feels like ripping it off. The eyelid, the nail, the skin off his face.

"I'm an old woman, Nathan," Angela says calmly, hand curled around a pen. She looks up. Gives him a small smile. "And you're not a young man."

"I should remember something like that," he argues. "So should you."

Her gaze slips back to the letterhead beneath her palms. "I don't. I'm sorry."

A slow thrum pulses around his eyes when she speaks. Sometimes. He should know what that means, but he doesn't. He used to know. He's pretty sure. "Where's Pete?"

"He's with Claire," Angela drawls, lips curling. She dots the i in Petrelli and adds, "And Noah."

His eyebrows draw together. Why doesn't he like Bennet again? No. No, he likes Bennet. Bennet doesn't like _him_. "I'll need Pete's help with the senator from—" His wristwatch seems to be ticking loudly. He stuffs his hand in his pocket to quiet the noise. "—Connecticut."

"Rest, Nathan," she replies. Her voice is oddly soft. "You've been through a lot."

His shoulders straighten. He rises, slings his suit jacket over his shoulder, and sighs. "I have a lot to fix."

Angela continues writing. Her pen, the table, the stationery. They don't look familiar. Must be new. "Nathan," she warns. "Don't make me worry."

He smirks. Heads for the door. Throws over his shoulder: "I love you, Ma."

Her smile is patronizing. And a little sad. "So you've said, dear."

*

"Dad," she warns. "We had a deal."

Noah takes off his glasses. "Claire, your _mother and I_ had a deal," he counters. "School first."

Claire narrows her eyes. "I have time for school. An eternity, actually." She checks her tone and shuffles closer. This works. Always. "Please."

Noah swivels around in his chair and stares up at her. Contemplates for a moment. Hands her a file with an exaggerated sigh. "Go find Smith. He needs a partner."

She grins. "Is that really his name?"

Noah turns his back to her, lips twitching. "Don't get caught." The chair squeaks under his weight. "Again."

She's almost out the door before she stops, brushes her fingers across the doorway, and adds softly, "I'm going to go see Nathan tonight."

The squeaking stops. "Any particular reason?"

She hesitates. "I haven't seen him in six weeks. I wanted to... say thanks."

Noah's eyes are trained on the computer screen. "He's a busy man," he says, lips a tight line. "And you have a case."

Something's wrong. She knows. Her father is lying. Again. "You've been talking me out of spending time with Nathan since..." She has to weigh her words carefully. "Since Coyote Sands."

Where they burned the bastard.

Noah's shoulders stiffen. "I just don't want to share my little girl, Claire-bear."

Her chest tightens. She's too old to run back and pounce on him. And also, she suspects he's still lying. "Okay," she accepts. "I won't go." She pastes a small smile. "You're right, Dad. He's probably busy."

She hates lying.

*

"Your... er, daughter is here to see you, sir?"

His heart is racing. Why the hell is his heart racing?

"Hey."

He stands up and rounds his desk. He hasn't seen her in forever. Since that hotel room. No. Since Mexico. No. Since— Doesn't matter. She's here. "_Claire_."

She pauses at the door, unsure. "Sorry if I'm interrupting—"

"No," he says, a little too quickly.

The page excuses himself. The door closes. And Nathan's arms wrap around her.

She freezes, then slowly relaxes. "Uh. I missed you, too." There's incredulity in her voice and it makes him grin.

"Sorry," he mumbles into her hair. Doesn't let go. "It's been a while."

"Yes," she sighs. Her fingers curl around his tie. "I need to talk to you."

He pushes her away slightly. Looks at her. Frowns. "What's wrong?"

She pries his hands off and plops down in the nearest chair. Her hands clench in her lap and she leans forward. "Nothing's wrong. I just feel..."

He sits opposite her, mirroring her posture. "Claire."

"I feel like he's still alive," she says quickly. She fidgets with her sleeves, avoiding his eyes. "I watched him burn and I still—" She gives an exasperated growl. "I don't _feel_ like he's gone."

He shifts in his chair. This should worry him. Not excite him. "I don't understand. You don't _feel_ like—?"

Her gaze fixes on an invisible spot on the carpet. She thinks for a moment, then grits her teeth. "Can we do something? Check his DNA? I just... I need more proof, Nathan."

More proof than setting the bastard's carcass on fire? "I—Claire, there's nothing left. Only ashes."

Frustrated, she nods. "I know. But—"

His hand clamps down on her shoulder. He needs to say something. But his mouth won't open.

Has he touched her like this before?

"Someone's killing those agents," she mumbles.

Her lips are wet. As opposed to his throat. He stands up, goes to the window, peeks through the blinds. "It's not him. The MO doesn't fit."

She hangs her head. "Sorry, Nathan. I'm wasting your time."

"No," he replies, turning to look at her.

He has sons. Two. He watched them come into this world. Watched them learn to walk and talk and break things. So why is his daughter so much more important?

"Mexico."

Her head snaps up. "What?"

"Let's take a trip. Father-daughter. Just the two of us."

"I can't," she blinks. "I have a case." She checks her phone absentmindedly. "Actually, I'm supposed to be tracking down Agent Smith as we speak."

"Is that his real name?"

Her smile melts something inside him. A shackle breaks. "I have a Senate meeting tomorrow," he remembers. Rubs his forehead. Pushes the thought away. "I don't care."

She's looking at him as though he's a temperamental child. "You're not serious."

He presses a button on his phone. "Williams," he smirks into the speaker. "Cancel my meetings. Family emergency." He doesn't wait for a response. Instead, he unbuttons his cufflinks. Slides open the window. Offers his hand to her.

She looks suspicious, then rolls her eyes. Grins brilliantly.

Briefly, he worries he's getting addicted to that smile.

"Did I ever tell you about my favorite birthday present?"


	2. Chapter 2

She's starting to kinda love Mexico.

"Figured this might take your mind off... things," Nathan grins, one eyebrow raised.

She returns the smile. Downs her shot. Licks her lips. "Sorry. I can't drink my troubles away." She glances at the leaky ceiling. Her lips keep quirking upwards. "Literally."

"Oh. Right," he mumbles, pausing before he drinks. "Regenerating liver."

The bartender eyes them suspiciously.

She's lost track of how many shots they've had between them. Enough to supply a small country, certainly. "And I'm starting to suspect it's genetic."

Nathan's face is scrunched up adorably. "I told you. It's all about practice. And let me tell you, I've had practice."

She rolls her eyes. Reaches for the peanuts. Cracks open one shell. "You didn't tell me that." She pops a peanut into her mouth. Eventually, she'll need to stop grinning. "_Yet_."

He watches her mouth move. Scowls a little. "Have you called your dad?"

She purses her lips. Doesn't want to lie. "I thought about sending a text message."

He grabs a shelled peanut out of her palm. His fingers linger. "But?"

"But I didn't think he'd appreciate reading 'BRB, in Mexico, getting wasted with Bio-Dad' before his morning coffee."

He's obviously biting back a grin.

Why did she wait six weeks? "Look, Nathan, I... wanted to thank you."

He grows serious. Looks down at the bar. Clears away the broken shells. Doesn't look at her when he asks, "For what?"

She can't put it into words. But she has to try. "For stopping Sylar. For _fixing_ things."

His eyes darken peculiarly. "I still have a long way to go," he mutters. He takes a moment to signal for another shot, lost in thought. "Claire—"

There's something about the way he says her name. Strangely familiar. Unpleasant. It makes her stomach twist. What if—

No. It's just paranoia. Sometimes, she sees Sylar in everyone. Strangers, friends, grandmothers, children. The mirror.

She shouldn't be thinking so much about a dead man anyway.

With a sigh, she presses her cheek against the counter and gives him a grateful look. "Just say thank you."

He lowers his elbows to the bar, leans on his arms, and turns to look at her. "Thank you, Claire. For saying thanks."

Her smile is sleepy. There are five empty shot glasses between them. "Do I win?"

One corner of his lips curls. "Were we playing?"

She exhales. Her breath shifts his bangs slightly. "I don't remember."

His eyes glaze over. "I don't remember, either."

Somehow, it feels like they're not talking about the same thing.

She squints at the old clock hanging above the bar door. "Call it a night?"

He glances at the clock. Spends an eternity scrutinizing it. Pushes off the stool and rubs one eye. "I let you win, you know."

She links her arm with his and jumps down. "We weren't playing."

*

Mexico shouldn't make watches.

They're all off.

He should call Pete and complain. He used to call Pete all the time.

"Made in Taiwan," Claire corrects, smug. Her fingers brush over the exposed mechanism of an old alarm clock. She flicks a rust-covered gear and looks up innocently. "As a senator, you shouldn't say things like that. They'll impeach you."

Well. He wasn't aware he said it. Out loud. "You can keep a secret, Claire."

She tilts her head. "Yeah."

There's no thrumming around his temples. There never is when Claire speaks. The idea makes all his aches fade. "Speaking of secrets," he announces. Fishes out his cell. Dials. "It's me, Ma." He waits for a beat, then adds, "Claire's with me."

He wonders if the line's gone dead. "Ma?"

"_Can I speak to her, Nathan?_"

He frowns, and hesitates. He should give the phone to Claire. But his fingers won't listen. "She's sleeping."

"_I see_."

Claire pokes her head over his shoulder. "What are you talking about?" She glances at him briefly and huffs into the phone, "I'm here—"

Her fingers wrap around the cell. She tugs it away, curls around it, and takes a step back. "Yeah. No, it's—we're fine." She pauses. "What?"

His fingers itch. There is something he should be doing with them. His hand lifts a little. He needs that phone. Now. "Claire—"

She shushes him. Her hair falls forward, hiding her face. "I didn't know. I'm sorry. Yes, he should be there for that." Another pause. "No, we'll go back. Yeah. Tomorrow morning."

She flips the phone. "They have footage." She falls backwards on the bed. Her back hits the mattress. Her hair spills around her head, curling. There is a brief flash of skin before her sweater settles.

Sick. He's sick. "Of what?"

"The person who's been killing the agents," she breathes, smiling brightly. "Apparently, it's a woman." There is so much relief in her voice it makes his knees weak.

Quietly, he sits on his bed. He bought a room with two beds. This time. "Do they know who she is?" He slips his tie off. Toes off his shoes. Leans on his knees and hangs his head, swallowing back the taste of tequila. Why isn't he drunk?

"No," she says, stretching her hands toward the ceiling. She turns the smile on him and adds, "It's not Sylar."

The name makes him wince.

"Or Alex," she amends, amused. "I was worried for a while what with the drownings and all."

This is a concerned father speaking. Nothing more. "Who's Alex?"

Her cheeks burn. "He can breathe underwater. I sort of saved him from you."

What? He'd never go after someone with a power that lame. Wait. No. He sent... agents after the boy. Possibly. Probably. "I'm sure he was grateful."

She stretches playfully, closing her eyes. "Maybe."

His gut clenches. He can't do this. He can't impose on her life like this. She can do and say and like whatever she wants. He's better now. He's a better Nathan.

"Stay away from him."

She blinks, cocking her head. Kicks off the blanket and slips under the sheets. Snuggles the pillow and stares at him. Her eyes are sparkling with amusement.

She doesn't say anything, so he has to. "Too much?"

"Yeah."

His head hits the pillow. He turns to watch her. "Feel better?"

Her smile disappears. Her eyes darken. "Knowing that it's not Sylar?" She says that damn name in a way that makes him want to arch off the bed. "Definitely."

With a sharp exhale, she hops out of bed and pads over to the lamp. Clicks it off. The room falls into darkness. He can barely see her silhouette as she makes her way back. He tenses. Maybe she'll miss a step. Trip over his shoes. Fall into his arms.

Her bed creaks softly.

He's relieved. Of course he is. Nothing else would be appropriate. "Good night, Claire."

She doesn't reply.

He's drifting off by the time she mumbles, so softly he's not sure if he's imagining it: "He offered me... things. I think."

His eyes open slowly. "Sylar?"

She makes a tiny, noncommittal noise. "What's going to happen when my dad and my mom and Lyle are gone?"

He thought her brother's name was Larry. "Claire, that's—"

"And Angela and Peter and you?" she whispers. "What will I do when you're gone?"

Funny. He doesn't feel like he ever will be. "Claire—"

"Too much?" she interrupts awkwardly.

"Yeah," he says, but nervous excitement coils through his limbs.

That toy car. He feels like he found it again. He _remembers_ finding it. Knows with all the certainty in the world that it wasn't a book.

"Good night, Nathan."

*

Nathan is weird.

He shaves like he's made of glass. He holds the razor in his left hand and pulls the skin taut with his right. Claire watches, curious.

Eventually, the thought comes unbidden.

"Sylar was left-handed."

Startled, Nathan nicks himself. A deep red stain bleeds through the shaving cream. He composes himself at once. Gives her a displeased glare. "So were most U.S. presidents."

She hides a grin. "You don't have to shave. We'll be late."

He dips the razor underneath the faucet. "We're in Mexico. Of course we'll be late." His eyes meet hers in the mirror. "Besides. Appearances are important, Claire."

She slides closer to him. Their arms touch lightly. Yawning, she wets her hands. Splashes her face. Opens her eyes to find him staring at her, thick eyebrows furrowed.

The ground below her feet feels shaky. This isn't... like last time. Why isn't it like last time? What is she doing wrong?

She can't look at him. But she can look through the medicine cabinet. Get him something for that cut. "So..." she begins. "Can I work on the Drowning Lady case?"

"Tell me that's not what they're calling it," he muses, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Okay. This. This is better. She can do this. "Can I?"

"Did you ask your father?" he sighs, running the razor down his throat. The spot of blood on his cheek gleams.

Her fingers twine through a sanitized napkin. She shreds a piece. Sticks it to his face. "I just did."

His features soften. She doesn't recognize this emotion. She should. She thinks she must have seen it before. On her dad's face. On her mom's face. She knows it's love. And pride. And gratitude.

But it feels wrong.

His fingers slowly wrap around her wrist.

"Is that a yes?" she asks softly, confusion blurring her vision.

He lets go as though her skin scalds. "Sure. Yeah."

She perks up. Plucks the piece of tissue off his cheek. "Thank you—"

The tissue flutters to the floor.

Nathan's cheek is smooth. Clear.

_Healed_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes**: Thank you for the feedback! Nice to know I'm not insane. Well. That I'm not alone in my insanity.

*

She has small hands.

He likes the way they feel on his neck. He doesn't particularly like how hard they're squeezing, however.

"Claire," he smirks. "I won't drop you." The wind howls around them. "You can relax."

She doesn't.

She hasn't said much for the last few hours. Shame. Makes all the flying tedious. Which is strange. He never thought he'd find flying tedious.

"Nathan?" she asks. Her voice is low. And strained. And oddly hopeful.

The border stretches below them. Disappears in seconds. "Yes?"

"I was just thinking," she begins. He shouldn't be able to hear her over the wind, and yet... "Before you and Peter went in that room," she mumbles, "to fight Sylar... do you remember what I said to you?"

It feels like a trick question. "Not really," he replies amiably. "Think I was focused on 'What the hell are you doing to my daughter, you bastard?' " She doesn't smile. "Oh. And on not dying, of course."

"Go," she whispers. Her grip tightens. Her nails dig into his skin. "My last words to you were 'go.' "

He arranges his features into a pleasant expression. "That's one word, Claire."

She's staring at him. Her eyes are narrowed slightly. The wind is pulling her hair back. She looks like one of Samson's animals. Wild and messy and helpless—

_Samson_?

Casually, he dismisses the name. And the haggard face that comes with it. "Claire, what do you—what _last_ words?"

She seems to contemplate endlessly, then burrows into his neck. "Nothing. I'm thinking too much." She tries to smile against his skin. "Not used to things going right. I'm just nitpicking. You know?"

An odd sensation nips at his temples. There is a deep frown line between her eyebrows. He wants to smooth it out. With words. Or with his fingers. Or with his lips.

The idea should make him nauseous. It would make a good man nauseous.

They don't speak until his feet touch down a block from his office building. No one notices. So he releases her, fixes his suit, pushes a lock of hair behind her ear. They exchange glances. His is reassuring. Hers is tentative.

Then, she nods. Starts to trail behind him, assessing her surroundings. Like a good girl.

Maybe he should buy her a hot dog. That's what fathers do. Probably. And maybe he should get himself one. They haven't eaten, after all. Strange that neither of them is hungry. Well. They did drink their weight in tequila—

Right. He took his underage daughter to Mexico to get wasted.

Nathan can do better. He has to.

They amble into the building together. Go through security together. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices one of the guards pat Claire down. His fat hands seem to linger on her hips.

"That's my _daughter_." It comes out less composed than he'd prefer. More menacing.

The guard blinks guiltlessly. "Sir?"

Nathan pulls his lips into a good-natured smirk. His hand wraps around Claire's elbow automatically. He tugs her toward the elevator. Says: "He likes you."

She wrinkles her nose. "Pretty sure he was just doing his job."

Her sweater rides up a little. Creates a flash of skin above her jeans. Around the small of her back. It's enough to draw his gaze to it. Twist his thoughts. Make him feel greedy.

His lips briefly brush against her ear as they walk.

At least no one knows. No one can read his mind.

"Matt," Claire breathes.

Of course.

"Parkman," he greets. Squares his shoulders. Clears his throat. "I thought you were on assignment."

Matt hesitates. Averts his eyes. "Your mother sent me to get you." Hunched awkwardly, he takes a sip of coffee, spams the Down button, fixates on the elevator door. "She wants you to hold a press conference." He finally glances at Claire. His eyes soften. He looks fatherly. "Hey, Claire."

She smiles back. A genuine smile. Nathan hasn't seen it in hours. So he steps between them.

The elevator pings. The doors open. "I'm assuming this is about the drownings."

They pile in. Matt presses a button. Leans against the wall. "It's Tracy Strauss."

He should know that name. And that body. Intimately. "Is she in custody?"

Matt inhales deeply. "Let's just say we had trouble... containing her."

Claire whips out her phone.

"How so?" Nathan asks.

Matt finally locks his eyes with his. "She's—" his face scrunches up, "controlling water? That's how she's been getting in and out. We couldn't catch her. She... literally slipped through our fingers."

Claire's lips curl. Her fingers type furiously.

Nathan looks down at her. "What are you doing?"

"Texting Micah." She meets his eyes. "His aunt's alive. Thought he should know."

Matt raises both eyebrows. They almost touch his hairline. "You keep in contact with Rebel?"

She waves her phone. "Well, he talks to machines. And I own one." Her body language shifts slightly. "I probably shouldn't tell him we're trying to bring her in."

"We?" Matt asks, amused.

Claire's eyes connect with Matt's. Sparkle. "Nathan said yes."

Wary, Matt glances at him. "Congratulations."

Nathan grits his teeth. His head hurts. Feels disjointed around Parkman. "On second thought, maybe it's too dangerous, Claire."

The elevator doors open. "You need me. Considering I'm the only one that can reach Tracy's last living relative..." She's smug. And full of herself. It reminds him of someone. He kinda likes it. "She needs Micah to ground her. Like an anchor or something."

His eyes connect with hers. His hands feel like they should be wet. And sticky. With blood. But they look clean, so he steps out of the elevator and groans.

His secretary is already rushing toward him, flanked by nervous pages. "Your speech—" one starts hurriedly. "We go on air in twenty—" another adds.

They swarm, blocking his view of Claire.

"Oh, by the way," Matt tosses out nonchalantly, toasting the air with his cup of coffee. "Your brother's here, too."

Claire cocks her head, intrigued.

The elevator swallows them up.

Nathan clutches his speech.

Pete. Yeah. He needs to talk to Pete.

*

Peter's her hero.

This will never, ever change.

"Is he different?"

"What?" Peter asks through a mouthful of bagel.

She huddles closer to him. The steps of the Senate are cold. It's a decent excuse. "Nathan." Their knees touch. "Do you think something's... off about him?"

Peter stops chewing. He seems to think for a moment. Looks at his bagel. Looks at her. "You mean, as opposed to a few months ago when he went all Heinrich Himmler on us?"

She cracks a small smile. "You're lucky I get that reference."

Peter grins and brushes his thumb over her cheek. Leaves a smudge of jelly. "Last year, he found God." His gaze becomes distant. "Before that, he tried to blow up New York." He frowns. "Tried to kill Dad. Tried to _be_ Dad—"

She wipes at her cheek. Licks her finger. "Okay, I get it—"

"He's only consistent in his inconsistencies," Peter concludes. Bites down on his bagel. Glances at her out of the corner of his eye. "Why?"

Yeah. Why?

People heal. Normal people heal. Her dad has cut himself shaving billions of times. He has no scars. It's normal that Nathan doesn't, either. Some cuts just look deeper than they really are. Some wounds close faster than others.

"No reason," she mumbles, warming her hands between her knees.

He nudges her shoulder with his. "Noah told me to tell you Agent Smith's been looking for you."

She grins. "He'll have to keep looking." She fixes her eyes on his. "I want to work with _you_, Peter."

His bangs flop over his eyes. "I'm pretty useless at the moment." He looks away. "I can only hold one power at a time, Claire." He shrugs. Sounds resigned. "Shapeshifting's not as fun as I thought it would be. Teeth fall out."

She frowns, picking at what's left of his bagel. "We can be useless together."

He watches her for a long moment. "...I'd need to talk to Nathan first." He seems ready to agree. Just needs a little push. She provides it.

"Take his power. I'm getting used to flying everywhere."

Peter's smile is sincere. And familiar. "You know, it's weird," he says. "I haven't so much as shaken his hand since we killed Sylar."

She freezes.

"Sorry," Peter tells her. "Didn't mean to bring that up."

She shrugs. Tries to look unconcerned. "Not like I forgot about it anyway."

He gives a small, thoughtful nod. "No, I guess you wouldn't."

She raises her eyebrows slightly. "What do you mean?"

He seems to be weighing his words. Decides to share. "I never told anyone this—" She scoots closer. "—but after the explosion," he cringes. "I sort of lost all of my memories."

"What?"

His mouth opens, closes, opens again. "It's okay," he manages. "I had your power. So I remembered everything eventually."

She feels dread creep up her spine. She's not sure why. Cellular regeneration extends to all cells. She _knows_ this. She'll never get Alzheimer's or forget her mom's birthday. She should be happy. "You're saying I'll remember every embarrassing thing that ever happened to me?"

Peter gives her a lopsided grin, eyes warm. "I'm saying you'll always know who you are, Claire." He glances at his hands. "Which means the future I saw won't happen."

Claire is still wondering about that. But the implication in his words distracts her. "Does that mean you won't be telling me to go home every other day?"

He stuffs the rest of the bagel in his mouth. Jumps up, dusts off his pants, and offers her a hand. "Let's go." He grins boyishly. "Partner."

*

"Pete."

It's Pete. He should cross the room and embrace him. That's what he's supposed to do.

Instead, he leans back in his chair. Puts his feet up. Smirks. "Are you lost? The Smithsonian's that way."

Peter gives him a half-hearted glare. "I wanna work."

"I see," he replies calmly. "Riding in ambulances not cutting it for you anymore?"

Peter looks pretty damn determined. "I want to make a difference. _Here_." He takes a step closer. Looks strangely confident. "Tracy Strauss. Let me help her."

Nathan's eyes narrow slightly. "A popular request today."

"Claire's right," Peter nods. "If we find Micah—"

It bothers him when Peter talks about Claire. It's always bothered him. "You realize, of course, Tracy's not his mother? She might not care."

Peter looks frustrated. "It doesn't matter. They're connected. We're _all_ connected."

It's that eternal optimism that pisses him off. That's not how the world works. It's time Pete learned that. "I can deal with Tracy, Peter. You should go home," he informs him. Stands up. Shuffles through a stack of papers. Thoroughly ignores his brother. "Leave The Company stuff to those of us who know what we're doing."

Peter stares for a long moment. "Claire's right."

Nathan's head snaps up. "What?"

"You're... off."

His fingers itch. "I'm running a company, Pete. And a country—"

"And a family!"

Okay. He needs to calm down. Control his irritability. This is his brother. He loves him. He loves him more than anyone. He's loved him for twenty nine years. Thirty years? How old is Pete? He's sure he's read his file before—

"I'm sorry," Nathan sighs, rubbing one eye. An eyelash sticks to his index finger. Flutters away. "I want you here, Pete. With Ma and Claire. I want us to be a real family." He rubs harder. Pushes against the eye socket. The pressure builds in his temples.

"Nathan," Peter says softly.

This is where the man-hug is meant to happen. He can't let it. He can't have Peter touch him. Not yet. "Go talk to Bennet. I'll talk to Claire." He forces a grin. "She won't be happy, Pete. You're stealing her case."

Peter's smile is blinding. "Nah." The grin turns lopsided. "She wants to work on it." He hesitates for a bit. "Together."

Nathan's jaw clenches. "That's—"

Did that mug just move?

"Nathan?"

He clicks his tongue. Blocks the desk and the mug from view. Smiles at Peter. "Sounds like a plan, Pete." The mug is still sliding across the desk. "Get the door on your way out, will you?"

Suspicious, Peter leaves the office. Slowly. Keeps his eyes on Nathan's desk until the door closes between them.

With a frown, Nathan crouches down and focuses on the mug. Presses his right palm to the desk. It's cold and smooth beneath his hand. He moves two fingers a little to the left.

The mug flies off the desk. Shatters against the wall.

Nathan stands up and tilts his head.

"Well. That's new."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes**: Apologizing in advance. Next chapter may be really late. Also, again, three billion thank yous for reading.

*

So.

Being on the government payroll isn't as exciting as she thought it would be. It's mostly sitting around. Granted, it's sitting around with her Dad and Peter, but still. It's glorified paperwork. And she wants out.

"Micah's still not answering?" Noah asks. He sips his coffee with a knowing smirk. Swivels back in his chair.

She purses her lips. "He will," she assures. "Probably doesn't help that Nathan keeps holding press conferences. Even _I_ get jumpy when he talks about bringing people to justice."

Noah observes her carefully. "Has he said anything strange to you?"

She glances around the basement. Two or three agents are bent over their keyboards. Out of earshot. "Who, Micah?"

Noah only looks at her.

"No," she mumbles, averting her eyes. "Nathan and I just talked."

Another sip. "About?"

She squirms in her seat. She has no reason to squirm. She needs to knock that off. "About his drinking problem, politics, Mexican craftsmanship... look, Dad, you don't have to worry."

Noah's glasses catch the light. He squares his jaw. Lowers his cup to his lap. "Easier said." His chair rolls across the cement floor with a squeak. Parks next to hers. "You don't want to go home?" He nudges her shoulder. "Spend some time with Mom and Lyle?"

She can almost feel the warmth radiating off him. She wants to go home. She wants to bake cookies with her mom. She wants to walk Mr. Muggles. Lyle can come, too. Because one day, they'll all be gone and she won't have anyone to—

Her phone beeps.

"Micah?" Noah asks.

"He wants to meet at the corner café in twenty minutes." She pockets her phone. "Alone."

Noah adjusts his glasses. "Peter's with Angela. I'll send him after you in—" he checks the computer screen. "An hour."

Her lips curl. "Should be enough."

She doesn't look like an agent. She doesn't feel like one. Which is why she can easily blend in. Find her target. Get the job done.

She finds Micah sitting politely at a small table outside. His backpack seems bigger than him. He's alone. Her heart aches a little.

"0110010," she greets with a grin. Slips into the plastic chair opposite him. Splays her hands on the table.

"Claire," he breathes, relieved. Belatedly, he checks to see if she's alone.

"Did I say anything?" she asks, fixing her eyes on his. "I was trying to speak binary."

He scrunches up his face. His eyes are huge. And kind. And sparkling. "Stick to English."

Ice broken, she leans forward. Her hair brushes the tabletop. "Micah—"

He fidgets with his shoulder strap. Glances away. Focuses on a pigeon pecking at crumbs. "I can't help you." His voice is uneven. "I don't want to."

She can't blame him, but. "She's hurting people, Micah."

His curls bounce as he shakes his head. "Sometimes you have to."

She extends her hands across the table. "We can't stop her without you. We don't have anyone powerful enough."

Micah's face is adorably innocent as he says: "You have Sylar."

She draws her hands back quickly. "What?"

Micah smiles. "He'll help." He seems excited. Ready to spring forward. Sing Sylar's praises. "Just ask him to help."

They're not talking about the same Sylar. The Sylar she knows—_knew_—doesn't help people. Well. He saved her once. But that was... a game. An anomaly. A chess move. "He's—" she growls. Corrects her tone. And tense. "He was a monster, Micah."

Micah frowns. His eyes shine. "People are like machines," he begins softly. Patiently. "I can't tell them what to do, but I can read them."

She doesn't want to hear this.

"He _saved_ me, Claire."

Her jaw clenches. "Micah, Sylar's dead."

He hesitates. "He's dead?" He takes out his phone. Presses his fingers to its screen. Closes his eyes. "Lemme ask Molly."

Claire smacks his hands away. "He's dead!" The phone drops to the table. Spins. "I watched him burn."

Micah stares at her. Seems unconvinced.

"Why did you pick me?" she asks after a moment of uncomfortable silence. "We only met for, what, an hour at Kirby Plaza?"

Micah smiles. "I told you. People are like machines." He stands up. Sways beneath the weight of his backpack. "And you're like a machine that will never break down." His mouth stretches. "I won't find a more reliable one in my lifetime." He pauses thoughtfully. "Other than Sylar."

Her nails dig into the plastic.

"I know she has to be stopped," Micah admits slowly. "But can you promise me you won't hurt her?"

Claire falters. "I promise I'll do my best to protect her."

Micah's smile is brilliant.

He adjusts his backpack and heads off. Throws over his shoulder: "I'll send you a message later!"

She sits for a while, staring at his empty chair.

...which isn't empty for long.

"That didn't go well, dear."

It's Angela's voice. Claire smirks. "You don't think this is weird, Peter?"

Angela's face creases uncharacteristically. "Oh, extremely." Beat. "She needed to be in two places at the same time." Pause. A small whine: "When I said I wanted to work..."

Claire bends over the table and pulls at Angela's high collar, shielding Peter's shifting face from curious passersby. "Is she punishing you for something?"

Peter slumps in the chair. "Probably." He presses his palms against the armrests. "What did Micah say?"

Claire considers her words carefully. "He'll help." Off Peter's dubious expression, she adds, "Where did you say Angela was?"

She should go back. Report to her dad. Type up a report. It's as simple as that.

Instead, at sunset, she says goodbye to Peter and tracks down her grandmother.

Angela has a small office near Nathan's. It's tidy and unassuming. It shouldn't exist.

Claire knocks softly.

"Come in, dear."

Claire peeks in. Tries to grin. "What, did you dream I'd be dropping by?"

Angela's eyes trail her every move. "In fact, yes, I did."

Claire pauses. She needs to take a seat. Calm down. Phrase things properly. "So you know what I'm about to ask."

Angela leans back. Her chair doesn't make a sound. The pen in her hand, however, trembles slightly. "I do."

Claire's mouth opens. Bile rises in her throat. "Where's Nathan?"

Angela flinches imperceptibly. "In his office, dear."

Claire's heart is racing. "Hypothetically," she starts. Her voice is shaky. "If Sylar were still alive—" Her stomach drops. "—how would you stop him?"

Angela blanches. "I'm going to speak to you like an adult, Claire." She lowers the pen and meets Claire's gaze. "Sylar is dead."

Claire wants to believe. "Physically?"

Angela's jaw clenches. "Claire." Her eyes harden. "There isn't anything a mother wouldn't do for her child."

Something inside Claire breaks. The depth of despair that descends on her is immeasurable. Her last words really were 'Go.' Her father is dead. He's dead. "Sylar—"

"Is gone."

Claire's head snaps up angrily. She bares her teeth. Tears prickle at the corners of her eyes. But she notices Angela's expression. It's broken. Beyond repair.

"I will do whatever is necessary—" Angela says. Her voice is ice cold. But that damn pen is still shaking. "—to see his face every day. Even if it's not really his." Her chest rises sharply. "A mother's love can be ugly and unpleasant, Claire. I won't make apologies."

Claire can't think. The words are coming out without her permission. "He's going to remember."

"If he remembers," Angela interjects, "Matt Parkman will take care of it."

Claire jumps out of her chair and slams her palms on Angela's desk. "And when he remembers in ten, twenty, fifty years? When you're all gone?" she growls. Her heart is hammering against her breastbone. She's going to throw up. "What happens when he starts pulling the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde act and YOU'RE NOT AROUND?"

"Then it will become your job, Claire."

The blood drains from her face.

Angela rises. Rounds the table. Brushes Claire's cheek. Her voice is desperate. "I was thinking of you, as well."

Claire wants to argue. But her eyes are burning. She won't cry. She won't cry in front of Angela. Angela shouldn't have to watch her cry.

"An eternal life," Angela continues, cupping Claire's face. Her fingers are cold. Soothing. "Just think. You could have Nathan with you. Forever."

Claire's heart stops.

Angela's hands drop to her side.

"Hypothetically, of course."

*

Sometimes, he misses New York.

Like tonight.

Washington makes him high-strung. Political pressure. The Company. Ma. And now Pete. And Claire. There is nothing left for him in New York. Aside from a collection of dust-covered old clocks.

But Washington makes him wake up in the middle of the night. Leaves him thirsty and unfulfilled.

He stretches. Twists out of his sheets. Pads over to the kitchen. Doesn't turn on a single light. Stumbles in the dark for a glass. Turns on the faucet.

Strange. He doesn't remember the faucet being so low. Or the glass being so small.

He squints at his hands. They seem larger. The fingers are longer. The hair traveling up his arms is coarser, thicker.

Slowly, he shuts off the water. Paws for the nearest light switch.

The kitchen brightens. His gaze roams, searching for a reflective surface.

There. The glass cabinets.

He leans against the counter, staring.

The eyes, the hair, the lips, the nose—who is this man scowling at him?

He needs to... go to the ER. And say what? That he woke up to surprise plastic surgery? He can't call the President like this. Is his voice—

"What's the hell—"

No. Even his voice is different.

Ma. He should call Ma. Or Suresh. Or Peter. Right. Pete can shapeshift. He can help.

He lunges for his phone. Rubs his eye. Dials—

—Claire's number.

"It's an emergency," is all he says.

Maybe it's Parkman. Creating an illusion. Messing with him. Or an escapee from Building 26, here for revenge. Maybe he's having a nightmare. Maybe he's just crazy.

He doesn't know what to do with himself. So he jumps in the shower. Scrubs at his face and neck and chest. Maybe he can take this skin off. This isn't the face Ma loves. Not the face Pete looks up to. Not the face Claire smiles for.

It doesn't work.

The reflection surfacing through the steam is still wrong. Oddly familiar, but wrong.

There's a muffled knock. Why can he hear it?

Hastily, he throws on a pair of pajama pants. Doesn't bother to towel off. Ties the string tighter around his hips. Steps out of the bathroom into the hallway.

He flicks his wrist. Out of habit. The door to his apartment opens obediently.

Claire is standing in the doorway, frozen.

Relief floods through him instantly. Along with a strange rush of excitement. He means to say something reassuring, but his lips won't cooperate.

Her gaze travels from his toes to his eyes. Her face crumbles. Her fists ball up. Her eyes well up.

He crosses the room lightning-fast. Pulls her into his arms. Has she always been so short? She fits awkwardly against his chest now. He needs to fix this. "No, don't—shh, it's still me."

She struggles against his chest.

"Claire," he murmurs, tightening his hold. "I'll fix it." He inhales deeply. Runs his fingers through her hair. "I can fix anything."

*

This is what she knows about Nathan:

Nothing.

Sylar's Nathan told her, _I was starting to think you knew me better than anyone_. Except, she only knows what she learned in Mexico. A few of his weaknesses. Some of his strengths. The way his eyes crinkled when he looked at her. The way he wanted to protect her. The way he needed to be saved.

She can't pinpoint what she hates about Sylar, physically. His face? His height? His voice? Those things are supposed to be gone. Replaced by Nathan's warm eyes.

"Let's get you to bed," she says calmly.

It's Sylar's face that's gazing at her. Sylar's hands on her skin. Sylar's voice in her ear. "I'm not drunk."

Cold sweat clings to the back of her neck. "I know," she replies. Her tone is calculated. Controlled. She can do this. She can get him to fall asleep. She can call Matt. "Angela warned me something like this could happen."

He scowls a little. Seems intrigued.

She pastes a smile. It hurts. "The formula. It's... evolving." She read the files. She can ramble. She's not even lying. Much. "That's why you and Tracy are manifesting new powers."

He seems suspicious. Human lie detector, right? Her throat closes up.

"It's not affecting Pete?" he muses.

She believes this. If she believes, it's not lying. "He was originally born with an ability." She tells no one in particular: "Like me." She pushes at his wet chest. Tries not to shudder. Tries to perk up. Without vomiting. "We'll go see Angela and Dr. Suresh in the morning, okay?"

His head tilts. He's analyzing her. She feels rooted to the spot. Her body is screaming to move, to run. But something within refuses. He's always looked at her with a sick sort of want. That, too, has evolved.

"You're staying?"

"Yes," she forces out, "Nathan."

He contemplates for a moment. Strides over to his bedroom. Sits down on the bed. Leans his elbows on his knees.

She follows him into the room. It's dark. Feels like a trap.

"Why this face?" he asks suddenly. Drags his hands down his stubble. "Whose face is this?"

Claire pauses. Even if he can't remember, there are files at the company. Photographs of Sylar. Aren't there? Besides, he watched Sylar burn. _What_ does he see when he looks in the mirror?

She needs to ask questions. Otherwise, he'll know she's lying. "Maybe it's someone who works with you?"

He flops down on the bed. His chest flexes. His hair soaks the linens. "Maybe," he tells the ceiling. "I don't like it."

Her hands are inching toward the vase of their own volition.

He killed Nathan. She doesn't know how he did it. Or why. She doesn't know what he felt or what he feels now. But she knows Nathan died alone. No one has mourned him. She knows she lost her father forever. She knows it's Sylar's fault.

No amount of brainwashing will change that.

"I'm sorry."

Her hands pause. Let go of the lamp. "What?"

"For calling you," he says. In Nathan's voice. With Nathan's lips.

Her heart aches at the reminder. Frustrated, she walks over to the bed. Sits down. Touches her hand to his. "Don't tell anyone about this." Her mouth forms a thin line. "Nathan."

He closes his eyes. Covers his face with one arm. "I need to. Something's wrong. You said it yourself."

It's a shell. It's not Nathan. It will never be Nathan. And she can't indulge Angela's denial. It's not fair. Or right. Or sane. "I'm worried they'll do something drastic to you. As usual." She gives him a quick smile. "_I'll_ help you, Nathan."

He opens one eye to look at her. Offers her a self-deprecating smirk. "I don't deserve you."

No. No, he doesn't.

She glances at his hand. His fingers are twined with hers.

Yeah. This will work. This is her problem to solve. He's hers to handle. No one else can do this. No one else gets to.

So.

She's going to draw Sylar out.

And then she's going to kill him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes**: Almost there! Thanks for reading.

*

He usually wakes up agitated.

Always before the alarm. Always dissatisfied. Often, he takes a long moment to remember who he is, where he's been, where he's going. Lies in bed, starving for... _something_.

Not today.

Today, he opens his eyes. And bites back a grin. He doesn't want to smile, but Claire is curled up in a chair, tucked away in a corner by his bed. Asleep. And adorable.

He rolls to his side and stares.

It's that feeling he thinks all fathers get. The gentle rush of pride. Of knowing instinctively this great kid is his. Of knowing she belongs to him forever, whether she likes it or not. It's so strong today that he gets up, bends over her, and gently covers her with a blanket.

Her hair catches the sunlight. Draws his attention to her face.

He means to kiss her forehead. To say _thanks for watching over me_. To reward her. Like a good father.

But his lips press against the corner of hers. And linger.

He needs to pull away. He's a Petrelli. Personal space is an unfamiliar concept. But this is different. He needs to go. He needs to stop this. He needs to—

—kneel by her side.

Mindlessly, he slides his hand up her thigh. Nuzzles her neck. Breathes in. His fingers are shaking, but it's okay. It's fine. He can repent later. He can ask for forgiveness. Since he'll never receive permission.

His hand freezes an inch from her breast. Bile rises in his throat. There's something wrong with him. Very wrong. It must be the formula. Whatever's messing with his body is destroying his mind. That's all. He's going to talk to Suresh. Fix it. And then he's going to be the best father in the world.

He talks his fingers into cooperating. Clenches his fists and rises. Brushes his teeth, shaves, dresses. Waits until he can hear her moving around. Decides he wants to avoid her. Decides he wants to see her.

"I got a text," she tells him when they walk into each other in the kitchen. Her smile is odd. Almost insincere. "Micah found Tracy. He says we can meet up today."

The drip of the coffee machine is loud in his ears. "We?"

"She wants to talk to you," Claire notes calmly. "She has a proposition."

His skin prickles. "Claire. That sounds like a trap."

She gives a small shrug. "If she wanted to kill you, she would've drowned you by now."

He takes a moment to evaluate the situation. "Where?"

She hands him a cup of coffee. Her fingers reach for his tie. "Mall. Basement level." She adjusts the knot. "She seems to like malls." Her brows draw together. "And basements."

She can't feel his heart racing through his shirt. He hopes. "I'd prefer a roof."

Her lips curl. The grin fades quickly. "I'm going to go home and change." She pats his tie and smiles. It doesn't reach her eyes. "Food court in two hours, okay?"

"Don't—" he begins. Almost finishes with _leave_. "—forget to check in with your dad." Other dad. Bennet. That guy. The guy he's better than.

The door closes behind her with a soft click.

Immediately, he picks up his phone and dials his assistant. "Schedule an appointment with Dr. Suresh."

He doesn't wait for confirmation. Just slings his suit jacket over his shoulder, picks up his keys, and heads for the door.

He's going to walk today.

He makes it to the lobby before he changes his mind. His feet hover above the tiles. The phone vibrates in his pocket. It's sufficiently distracting. His feet touch the ground with a squeak.

"Nathan," Angela says coldly.

He frowns into the screen. "Ma? What's wrong?"

She's silent for a moment. "Your assistant told me you were looking for Dr. Suresh?"

His temples throb. "Why is my staff reporting to you?"

"Dr. Suresh is a very busy man, Nathan," she replies briskly. "If you have concerns—"

"No," he cuts her off. "No concerns." Claire's right. No one else can help him. "I wanted to..." he nods at the doorman, squinting at the bright sky, "...congratulate him on the fine job he's doing with the program."

It takes two hours and four briefings for his migraine to fade.

Incidentally, that coincides with Claire's arrival.

"Pretzel?" she offers, ambushing him at the food court.

His head clears. His eyes narrow pleasantly. His mouth stretches into a lazy grin. "Sure."

"Oh," she mumbles, glancing at her pretzel. "I didn't think you'd actually... say yes." She seems sheepish for a moment. "I ate yours. Because you're late."

His face feels like it's going to split in two. "We can share." They've done it before. He liked it. He wants to share something again.

She averts her eyes. "I'll get you your own."

He's not disappointed. It's just a damn pretzel. He doesn't even like pretzels. "Leave it." He checks his watch. Taps its glass. Grows annoyed with its inaccuracy. "Are they here yet?"

She flips open her phone. Bites her lip. Concentrates as she scrolls.

His eyes fixate.

"Yeah," she says. Looks apprehensive. Inhales. Heads for the escalators.

He follows. He has no idea why he's doing it, but he pushes her a little to the side as they walk. Behind him. To protect her. To protect a girl who can't get hurt. From a person who won't hurt her.

Speaking of.

He feels like he should know Tracy. And yet, Micah's face seems so much more familiar.

"You alone?" Tracy asks, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Micah grins up at Claire. "They're alone. Don't worry."

"Micah," Tracy warns. Her tone brooks no argument. "Never—ever—trust this man."

Micah smirks in response, glancing at Claire. "We have a proposal."

Strange. Nathan kind of likes this kid. "I'm listening."

Tracy grumbles. Rubs her forearm. Shifts her weight from one foot to the other. "For a change."

Micah touches her arm. Meets Nathan's eyes. "We need you to shut your program down."

Nathan pauses. "I thought we were here to deal with your little killing spree." He sets his face into a scowl. He's a U.S. senator. He needs to act like one. "Look, I understand your need for revenge—"

Tracy snaps. "Revenge?" she hisses. "Are you an idiot?" Her lips stretch across her teeth. "I'm not trying to get revenge," she promises. "I'm trying to _save_ you."

His fingers itch. "Right. You're killing my men—"

Claire touches his arm, mirroring Micah. "You said you'd listen."

Her voice echoes off the walls. A small car passes by quietly. Flashes its headlights over a speed bump. Nathan withdraws into the shadows. Calms down. "Go on."

"You need to stop bringing them in," Tracy tells him urgently. She seems to struggle with an oddly familiar emotion, then adds: "People like us. Stop tracking them."

"We're only... containing those that pose a danger to the general public," he replies. It sounds rehearsed. Insincere. "The President's given us his—"

"You think they stopped bagging and tagging just because you _asked_ them to, Nathan?" she asks, incredulous. "For once, I'm not looking out just for myself." Her mouth thins. She glances at Micah. Looks back at Nathan. "You're a senator. You know how budgets work."

An inkling of doubt pricks at his skin. "What's your point?"

She sticks out her hand. Stretches out her palm. Conjures a ball of water. In an instant, turns it into spikes of ice and flings them past his head. They smash against the wall behind him. Fragments clink to the ground. "We're cheap weapons. Effective weapons. All of us." Her hand goes to rest on Micah's shoulder. "They're using you to build an arsenal, Nathan."

Strange. He can't decide if he should feel vindicated or cheated. Instead, he accuses: "So you're just going to kill everyone involved."

It's not a question.

She shrugs slightly. "If I have to."

Micah frowns.

Claire's voice startles them all. "How can we help you?"

Surprised, Nathan glances at her. "You're okay with her killing our agents?" He's not chastising her. He's just curious.

She pales. "I'm not okay with it. I just..." She seems confused. Frustrated. Trapped. Her hesitation gives him hope. "They're making a choice." She sounds wonderfully conflicted. "By taking ours away."

Tracy's lips curl. "Your kid's got a good head on her shoulders."

Claire doesn't seem to like the compliment.

Pity. He does.

"I could say the same to you," he replies, clasping Micah's shoulder. "I'll need proof, of course."

Micah's eyes bore into his. The kid stares for a long moment. Analyzes. Briefly glances at Claire. Returns his attention to Nathan. "No problem." He grins knowingly. "Call it... returning a favor."

The words make sense. He doesn't know why. So he smiles. "Next time, pick a less conspicuous place."

He's ready to hoof it back to his car and the security detail that's waiting patiently. To grab Claire. To take her home. To tuck her in. To call Pete and ask him to shapeshift into the Presi—

"Claire," Micah calls out.

Claire freezes. Looks resigned. Hauls Micah away, lowering her voice. "I know. Hold on." Tosses over her shoulder, "Give us a second—"

Nathan shouldn't be able to hear them. There's no way he can hear them from here. So why is he trying?

Tracy leans against the wall next to him. Crosses her arms. Observes carefully.

Nathan offers her a charming grin.

She rolls her eyes with a smile.

Claire's voice filters through: "How can you even tell?"

Nathan's ears perk up.

"Electrical particles," Micah explains, amused. "Kinda like reading a signature. Only with less ink and more electrons."

Claire pauses. "Is that new?"

"Yeah. We're evolving."

Nathan strains his ears.

"Not all of us," Claire mumbles. Her voice is low. Self-deprecating. "Some of us just have one ability."

"You can heal."

"Pretty sure that's just one power—"

"Not just _skin_, Claire," Micah tells her. He speaks with conviction. It makes Nathan pause. He can almost swear the kid is staring at him. "And not just yourself."

*

She shouldn't be doing this.

She doesn't have time. She should be helping gather proof. She should be saving people. Giving them new lives. Watching over them.

Instead, she's hiding in the elevator. There's a plane ticket in her pocket. Her phone is off. And this is her mental list of priorities:

1. Send Dad a text. Tell him she's going to California for a while. To spend time with Mom and Lyle and Mr. Muggles. He won't check. Not because he trusts her. Because Mom's not talking to him.

2. Get out of the building. _Undetected_. Get to the airport. Board the plane. Land in New York.

3. Avoid Matt Parkman at all costs.

The elevator door pings. Opens.

"Hey, Claire."

It would be funny if she weren't so scared. He'll know. She'll get caught. Someone will stop her.

"Hey, Matt," she chirps as he gets on. She thinks about puppies, ice cream, numbers. "How's... baby Matt?"

Matt's face brightens. He presses a button. Tilts his head. "He's walking. Well. Sort of." He gives her a goofy smile. Which fades instantly. "...oh, God, you _know_."

Her heart stops.

That's okay. She can still salvage this. She can throw him off track. She can lie. If she can fool Sylar, she can certainly—

"Yeah. I know."

What is she _doing_?

Matt falters. Hits the emergency stop button. Grabs her shoulders. "Look, I had no choice. You gotta believe me. There was nothing else we could—"

She's gritting her teeth so hard she worries she'll bite through her jaw. "That's not true!" She should shut up. Play nice. Keep her advantage. But she's just so angry. And she can't even tell anyone. Just has to swallow it up. Tuck it away. "My blood heals! It's in my file!" Despair bubbles up again. "I know that! My dad knows that! Angela knows that!"

His hands slip to his side dejectedly. "I... didn't know that."

It's not Matt's fault. It's no one's fault but Sylar's. All of this is his fault. "How did he die?" Her voice softens. "Nathan. How did he die?"

Matt flinches. "It doesn't matter, Claire." He sounds like he's trying to convince himself. "We stopped Sylar. That's all that matters."

"My dad tried that."

Matt blinks. "What?"

"My dad tried to erase my memories." She bares her teeth. "Do you know how angry I was when I found out?" Her stomach twists. "Do you know how angry Sylar will be when he remembers?"

Matt rubs his face. Sighs raggedly. "He won't. I went deep."

She could tell him. But it's her secret to use. When the time is right. "Then why do you feel guilty?"

He doesn't deny it. Just shakes his head. "Listen, when I... did that, I saw his life." He sighs. "It wasn't... great."

She's not curious. She doesn't care. At all. "So?"

"He won't _want_ to go back to that."

She pauses.

The words echo in her head for hours. Through airport security, through the in-flight movie, through the cab ride. She keeps thinking about it absentmindedly. Doesn't come up with conclusions or justifications or issues. Just thinks.

It doesn't matter. She has a plan. She's going to stick to it.

The apartment is condemned. The shop is boarded up. She finds both easily. It's like she's drawn to these places. Right. Because she read his file so many times. Nothing else.

Shop first. She feels weird among grandfather clocks and ticking watches and layers of dust. Creeped out. Awkward. Slightly embarrassed to be intruding. But she needs these things. She needs to trigger his clairsentience. Fast.

Her fingers brush over his neglected work desk. Tiny gears roll across the surface, scattering through the dust. She doesn't waste time. She takes the glasses, the pliers, the oil-stained cloth. He's bound to remember if he touches these. Bound to think about the things he did as Gabriel Gray. His first client, his first paycheck, his first victim. She'll make him remember everything.

She hurries through the shop. Ignores the questions needling at her. A person's life isn't defined by a depressing little room. And even if it were, she doesn't care. It's a monster's life. Worthless. Ugly. Despicable.

The apartment is harder to ignore. There are pictures. And books. And notches in the door to mark his growth spurts.

Huh. He was taller at age eleven than she is right now. A small grin plays about her lips.

No. She can't smile. Not ever.

There. That big stain on the floor. That's probably where he killed his mother. Where she bled to death while he watched. Like he did with Nathan.

Her phone is turned off. She can't check her messages. She'll waver. But she has to do this. Two rings and a soft click later:

"Hi, Mom."

"Claire?" There is a moment of panicked silence. "Who died?"

"No one," Claire replies softly. Her throat is dry. Unlike her eyes. "I just... wanted to see how you were doing."

Sandra sounds suspicious. "Where did we go for your twelfth birthday, Claire?"

Claire flattens the phone against her cheek. "We stayed home 'cause Lyle had chickenpox."

There's a soft sigh of relief. "I'm sorry, honey. I'm still a little... paranoid." Her tone lightens. She sounds pleasantly displeased. "Since you generally don't call unless it's an emergency."

Claire means to say: Mom, I want to kill a man. I want to _destroy_ him. He killed my mother and father and I'm going to be stuck with him for an eternity. And I'm already so tired.

All that comes out is: "I love you, Mom."

She can't tell anyone. She'll never be able to tell anyone anything. Her whole life is going to be spent internalizing. In isolation. _Forever_.

Her breath hitches. No. She's not going to feel sorry for herself. She's not going to cry. She's going to grab the nearest snowglobe, the nearest photo frame, the nearest book—

Her grip on the book tightens. It's _Activating Evolution_ by Chandra Suresh. She has the same volume back home. She should just stuff it in her backpack and move on, but she's a little curious—

She lowers herself to the floor. Her jeans get dirty. She flips through the pages. Frowns. For a moment, she thinks this is _her_ copy. The same passages are highlighted. Same chapters worn out. Same pages dog-eared. Same questions written in the margins.

Did he read it in his room? The way she read hers? Terrified and excited and hopeful all at once?

The old wall clock above her head ticks away. One hour, two, three. She rummages through his things, his room, his clothes. Makes assumptions, forms questions, gets a few answers.

Wonders if clairsentience is contagious.

*

Claire's in California.

She's been away for days. Technically, three days, eleven hours, four minutes and... roughly, seventeen seconds.

He's not pissed off. She needs to be with her family. It's fine. It's not a reflection on his parenting. She's not deliberately putting distance between them. It's not because she found out. She can't know. She can't read minds.

So why does it feel like she's read his?

He sinks into his chair. Broods. Beckons a glass of water. It flies to his hand easily. He brings it to his lips and fixes his gaze on the door.

Parkman should be walking through it soon. With Pete and Bennet and a solid, workable plan. Because he won't let his people be used.

His people.

Well. It definitely has a ring to it.

"—here to see you," is all he catches over the intercom.

He rubs his eye and prepares for another migraine.

The door opens slowly. A blonde shock of hair pokes in. Small fingers wrap around the handle. "Busy?"

He sits up in his chair. "Claire."

Her smile is strange. Almost insincere. So. She knows. She must know.

"How was your trip?" he asks calmly.

"Educational." The door closes behind her. "How were things here?"

He offers her a grin. She doesn't return it. "Fascinating." He stands up. "Did you know Parkman had a son? Because he hasn't mentioned it in about two hours." Her lips curl slightly, so he adds, "Glad to have you back, Claire."

She hooks a thumb through the belt loop of her jeans. Smiles up at him. That's better.

"So," he grins. "Bring me back anything?"

Her eyes connect with his. "As a matter of fact..."


	6. Chapter 6

Oops. Updated LJ; forgot to update FFN. Apologies!

**Notes**: Also, on a serious note, thank you for the feedback. I have the attention span of an inbred goldfish, so thanks for keeping me focused without making me feel guilty.

*

Logically, Claire understands.

The deaths he caused—directly, indirectly, on purpose, accidentally—were vicious. Brutal. Inhumane. Sylar is a killer. She doesn't care if it's by choice or design. He's a murderer.

But he's no more cruel than time.

Meredith would have died eventually. Nathan, too.

Of course, Claire is not objective. She won't justify the monster just because she's starting to know the man.

"Brought you my favorite book," she manages. It's Nathan's face staring at her. She'd like to pretend it's really him. It's tempting. But: "Figured you should read it." Her lips twist. "Seems like the right time."

He cocks his head. Scrunches up his nose. "I should warn you, Claire," he says. "I won't read anything by Judy Blume."

Her smile feels oddly unfeigned. She drops her backpack onto a chair. Keeps her eyes on him. "It's by Dr. Suresh."

He grins. "I won't read anything about hair styling, either."

She's only grinning because... it sounds like something Nathan would say. Sylar elevates deception to an art. "Other Suresh." She unties the straps. "Have you read _Activating Evolution_?"

He hesitates.

Claire pauses, too. Observes. Tries to decide. Is he really struggling to remember? To differentiate between his own memories and—

Doesn't matter.

"No," he replies finally, brow furrowed. "Can't say that I have."

She pastes a cheerful expression. "Well!" Her fingers wrap around the book. She pulls on the cover. Takes the book out. "No excuse not to read it now."

He glances at the nearest clock. "Technically, Parkman and—"

She stuffs the book in his hands. Roughly. "Just read it."

She expects him to instantly morph into Sylar, to take a second or two to remember, to promptly freak out, to go on a rampage—

But he only raises a curious eyebrow. "Why are you making me read about evolutionary imperatives?"

Those words. They're underlined repeatedly in the book. She blinks up innocently. "I thought it'd help you... understand what's happening to you." Well. She's definitely found a way around the lie detector. She'd celebrate, but there are more pressing matters.

He tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. Grins boyishly. "Claire—"

It takes effort not to flinch. Surprisingly, less than usual. "Trust me."

He nods slightly, and returns to his chair. Sinks in, props his feet on the table, flips to the first page. Instinctively skips to her favorite chapter.

She watches carefully, fists clenching. This will work. It has to.

He frowns. Purses his lips. Brushes his fingers across the page. Mumbles, " 'Evolution is a matter of choice'?" He glances at her. Returns his attention to the passage. " 'When a mutation is introduced, a decision is made. Nature asks: Does this new characteristic have value? Does it represent progress? Will it benefit the species?'..."

Her muscles tense. Any moment now. He's going to come back. She's ready.

He raises both eyebrows, amused. His voice sounds different. Familiar. Unpleasant. " 'Let's take human flight as an example.' "

Her hand slowly slides to her backpack. A flat metal spike hides in its depths. She barely managed to smuggle it through security. She'll have to use it soon.

His tone deepens. Grows more amused. " 'One can imagine the ability to fly would enhance a person's chance of survival _and_ be attractive to the opposite sex,' " he reads. His lips curl. He closes the book. Looks at her. Quotes: " 'This makes choice easy.' "

His fingers linger on the cover. He closes his eyes. Inhales. Exhales. Opens his eyes. They're dark brown. Soft. "Do you know who first gave me this book?" His skin ripples, stretches, settles. "The author."

Her heart jumps to her throat. Her fingers wrap around the spike. It's Sylar. _Finally_.

His frown deepens. "Or maybe Pete."

Anger rises within her. Why is he clinging to Nathan's memories? He's not Nathan. He doesn't deserve to be Nathan.

Quickly, she rounds the table, comes to stand before him. The spike warms in her pocket, against her hip. "It wasn't Peter," she growls. She knocks his feet off the table. Leans on his armrests. Towers above him. "This is _your_ book."

He looks up. "Claire, what—"

She's so angry she could cry. "I can't do this anymore," she tells him tiredly. Her hair brushes against his face. Her voice softens. "Let's end it."

He seems worried.

It looks odd on him. Because Sylar doesn't worry. Sylar is never _afraid_.

She's never seen him so terrified.

Well. Once. In Stephen Canfield's house. When she almost died. And he saved her.

Her lips part. Her eyes search his. She shouldn't have looked through his room, through his memories, through his photographs. Shouldn't have separated Gabriel Gray from Sylar—

The intercom startles them both. "Sir, your one o' clock is here."

Sudden panic overwhelms her. "Who—"

He seems unsettled. Raw. Vulnerable. "I tried to tell you," he drawls. Watches her lips for a long moment. Averts his eyes. "Parkman and Pete. Peter. And Ma. Angela—"

No. They can't see him like this. Not now. Not yet. They won't let her finish it. They'll wipe him again and she'll have to start over. _No_.

"I need you to be Nathan right now," she tells him urgently.

His eyes widen slightly. She can't identify the emotion flashing through them. Doesn't want to. "Claire, I don't know how."

The doorknob turns behind her. "Do you trust me?"

Sylar is looking up at her as though she's here to save him. She can't even laugh at the irony. But she will. She'll save him. Just this once.

And then they'll be even.

*

Yes, he thinks.

This is the appropriate reaction.

"You're late," he says calmly. A tight smile; not too smarmy, not too welcoming. He's got this.

Peter scowls, a protective hand on Angela's shoulder. "Your assistant made us sign in."

"It's proper procedure, dear," Angela admonishes, breezing past him. She hangs her coat on a hanger with practiced grace and smiles at Claire. "Welcome back."

Nathan remains seated. Can't move. He's on auto-pilot. He can't think straight.

He watches Parkman and Bennet pile into the room. Sees Claire slink off and wrap her arms around her father. Scowls when they quietly smile at each other.

"So, we ready?" Parkman asks lightheartedly, straddling the nearest chair. "I spoke to the guy from—"

Nathan checks out of the conversation.

He doesn't understand. He usually understands everything. How things function, how people think, how the universe works. Not much surprises him. Things just don't _perplex_ him. Everything is simple.

But Claire was whispering to him just a minute ago. She was cradling his face and telling him about their first meeting. Saying things about rocks and cars and things he doesn't remember. Coaxing him into coming back. Into becoming Nathan.

He's not, though. He's not Nathan. He doesn't know who he is, but he's not Nathan Petrelli.

"—and then Parkman and I can—" Peter is saying. He's eager. And excited. And not his brother.

He doesn't have a brother.

His gaze flickers to Angela.

Or a mother.

"Micah will never agree to that," Claire says. Breaks his train of thought.

"We can't afford to give him a choice," Bennet replies firmly.

There it is again. A disconnect.

He ignores the conversation. Slides his hand under the desk. Makes sure no one is watching. Stretches his fingers. Watches the skin on the back of his hand ripple, change color, grow rougher. Opens his palm beneath a drawer and flicks a spark of electricity at the rug.

Yes. He knows this, too. Knows someone who had this power.

Preoccupied, he looks up. Catches Parkman staring at him.

Smirks.

Okay. He'll let Parkman read his mind. Read all of it. Read about the things he wants to do. The people he wants to hurt? Save? Kill?

"So, are we agreed?" Peter asks.

Startled, Parkman blinks. "Uh, yeah." He clears his throat. "I'm in."

Angela rises, pats Peter's cheek, and heads for her coat. "Let's leave your brother to his work, then." She draws closer. Feels Nathan's forehead. Gives him a disapproving look. "Remember what you promised me, Nathan."

He tries to smile. His eyes connect with Claire's. "Don't worry, Ma. I'm letting Claire do most of the work."

Bennet and Parkman both tense. Probably his imagination.

"I'll drop by your place later," Peter tells him, reaching for the door. "...please don't have any women over."

Bennet strides out after Claire, hand on the small of her back.

Electricity buzzes through Nathan's ring finger. "Parkman."

Matt freezes. "Yeah."

"A moment?"

Matt exchanges a quick look with Angela. Closes the door behind her. Stays on the other side of the room. "Sure thing."

He needs to approach this delicately. "What did you do to me?"

Or not.

Parkman offers him a lopsided grin. "C'mon, Petrelli, what are you—"

Nathan rises. He wants to rip off this skin. He feels better in the other one. So much better. "I have the oddest sensation you've read my mind."

Matt's facade drops. "In my defense, that's my job."

Okay. He can play this game. "Am I Nathan?"

Matt leans against the door. His posture is rigid. His voice is stilted. "Who else would you be?"

"I've been wondering that."

Matt squares his jaw. "You're just tired." His words echo oddly. Scratch at the back of Nathan's skull. "You're Nathan Petrelli."

There is comfort in those words. A gentle lull. Safety.

But his temples are _throbbing_. "You're lying."

Matt doesn't hesitate. He outstretches his hand and concentrates. "I don't want to do this," he warns. "Not again. Don't make me do it again."

The door opens.

"Oh," Angela announces nonchalantly. "Am I interrupting?"

Parkman arranges his features into a friendly expression. "Nah. Nathan just had some questions." He gives her a flippant grin. "You know, about the plan."

Angela scrutinizes his face, then pats his arm. "I presume you were able to provide appropriate answers, Mr. Parkman?"

Matt's lips thin. "Yeah." His gaze slips to Nathan's. "I think so."

The door closes behind him.

Nathan leans back in his chair. Steeples his fingers. Fights back a sudden urge to take the door off its hinges, to drag Parkman back, to split his skull open, to find some damn answers—

"It's lovely, Nathan," Angela murmurs.

"What is?" he grumbles sharply, eyes narrowing.

She takes a few steps closer. Her heels sink into the carpet. "Your face lights up when you see her. It really is endearing."

His back stiffens. "I don't know what you're talking about." He remembers to add: "Ma."

She heaves a long, suffering sigh. "You know," she begins coolly, "that girl will never love anyone as much as she loves her father. _Both_ of her fathers."

His chest tightens. "She'll grow out of that."

Angela's eyes fix him with an admonishing stare. It makes him feel like a petulant child. "No, dear."

"In fifty years," he starts. His voice is shaky. "In a hundred years, she'll—"

She leans across his desk. Presses her cold lips to his forehead. "No, _Nathan_," she tells him. "Never."

*

"Never thought I'd be better at this than you," she grins. Pops her shoulder back into its socket. Dusts off her jeans.

Peter's smile is wonderfully crooked. "Not all of us can jump fifty stories and survive."

"Shortcut!" She offers him her hand. "Besides, you could take my—"

He swats her fingers away. "I need the shapeshifting for this plan to work." He looks around the alley, squinting at the setting sun. "If I lose it, there's no one to take it back from." He steps over a piece of debris. "Now that Sylar's dead."

Claire's heart skips a beat.

She should tell him. She needs to share this with someone. Before she goes insane.

"How much do you know about Sylar?" she asks instead.

Peter thinks. Scratches his head. "I know he's... dead?"

She falls into step next to him. Adds quietly: "Anything else?"

He frowns as they round a corner. The street is bustling, loud, crowded. He steps closer to her. Lowers his voice. Hesitates. "Well, there was this one thing. I guess."

Her ears perk up.

"In one of the futures I saw," Peter tells her conspiratorially, "he was sort of... normal?" He seems to search for a more appropriate word, then gives up. "He had a kid. It was kinda creepy." His eyes focus on a distant point across the street. "There were waffles, Claire."

She wants to ask: _did you hallucinate this? What kind of a screwed up future would leave Sylar in charge of a child? No, seriously, Peter, did you eat Matt's magical dung paste?_

"Boy or girl?" is all that comes out.

Peter blinks. "A son." His eyes darken. "I don't know if I should be telling you t—"

Her eyes quickly connect with his. "Peter," she murmurs, stopping. Several passersby duck around them. "We're partners. I'm not a baby. I want to know."

He stuffs his hands in his pockets, but holds her gaze. "His son's name was Noah, Claire." His eyebrows draw together. "And they were living in your house. With your dog."

Claire's circulation cuts off.

These are coincidences. Peter's probably wrong. His memories are messed up. He doesn't know what he's talking about. And he needs to stop this. Stop deconstructing her idea of who Sylar is—of who he _can_ be. There is nothing beneath the monster. She knows this.

Peter and Micah and Matt need to wise up. They're too trusting, too naïve, too innocent. This is why Claire needs to protect them. This is why she needs to keep her secret. Even if it ends up consuming her.

"In any case—" Peter says. Nudges her foot with his. Points his chin at the building. "That future's definitely not happening." Under his breath, he adds, "Hopefully."

They enter the building, scan their badges, separate with a warm smile. Peter heads off to the basement to write up a report. Claire boards the elevator. Doesn't call, doesn't ask. Feels like she knows where he's hiding.

She finds him on the rooftop, the rising moon at his back. He's standing on a ledge. Dangerously close to the edge, teetering on a precipice she suspects isn't necessarily literal. He just needs a small push.

"Did you like chapter seven?"

A spark of recognition lightens his eyes. His lips curl. "Why are you doing this to me, Claire?"

She takes a step forward, heart pounding. "I'm helping you."

His face flickers for a moment. Shifts into darker features. His smile turns wicked. Then pensive. Then lost. "You're lying."

His hair grows darker, longer, tangles wildly in the wind.

She takes another step. "I'm helping you be yourself," she says. Her fingers are trembling, but it's entirely too late to go back. "No one else will."

The soles of his shoes scuff against the ledge. "I'm Nathan."

Tears prickle at her eyes. Maybe she can pretend. Maybe it won't be so bad. Maybe Angela's right. "No. You're not."

"You're lying," he tries again, but it's a half-hearted effort.

She chooses her words carefully. "I can help you end it. I can help you do the right thing."

His arms wrap around her suddenly. Her cheek presses against his chest. His chin comes to rest atop her head. His heart beats faster than hers.

He whispers in her ear: "Not a big fan."

She frowns into his shirt. "What?"

"Of doing the right thing."

When he leaps off the building, his grip on her tightens.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes**: Baby nephew "helped proofread" this chapter. All mistakes his.

*

Twice.

Angela made him believe she was his mother twice. Gave him a family. Twice. Took it away. Twice.

"I'm going to kill her," he says for the tenth time.

Claire remains stubbornly unresponsive.

"I'm going to kill Parkman," he repeats against the wind. It sounds like a mantra. The desert stretches below them, blends into a dark flash of gold, disappears behind them. "And then I'm going to kill your father. And Pete." His nostrils flare. He corrects: "_Peter_."

Claire says nothing.

It doesn't matter. It's fine. She doesn't have to say anything. As long as she's by his side. He's lost, but if she's with him—

He's safe.

He remembers. He remembers doing this as a child. Taking his toy car to the attic when his father was home. Hiding away. Calming down. Fixing things.

An object and a location. Yes. That's what he needs to feel safe.

The last place—the only place—he felt safe, unburdened, _happy_, was Mexico.

"I'm going to kill everyone," he mutters as though he needs to remind himself. Tightens his grip on Claire's shoulders and begins his descent.

Claire's fingers curl against his chest. She winces but says nothing when they take a sharp dive. So. She still won't talk to him. Spoiled brat. How dare she ignore him like this? He's her damn _father_, she's supposed to—

He's not Nathan. He's... well. Gabriel sounds familiar. So does Zane. Agent Taub?

His shoes touch the ground. Scuff against gravel and dust.

"No use trying to run, Claire," he tells her.

Her eyes narrow as she steps out of his arms.

It's a different rundown motel. Different clerk. Different set of rusted keys. He's going to make new memories. Nothing's going to ruin this for him.

He slaps down a wad of bills, fixes the old woman at the counter with a deadly glare, and clenches his jaw.

The clerk hesitates. "Ah, señorita," she says. Glances at the key. Her eyes briefly connect with Claire's. She pauses, hand resting near a phone. Asks very carefully: "You need... cómo se dice... help?"

Nathan spoke Spanish. Nathan could charm anyone. He can't. So he says, in an irritated, menacing manner, "Give me the key. Now."

The clerk blanches, but valiantly tries again. "Señor, she seem not—"

The key flies out of her hand. Lands in his palm. His other hand lifts quickly, two fingers aimed at the woman's damn forehead—

"Stop it!" Claire snaps. Grabs the key from his hand. Lowers his arm. Turns to the clerk with a strained smile and assures, "It's okay. I'm fine."

The woman backs into a counter, cornered. "Sí. Go now."

So they do.

He tears through the small parking lot, the rotting steps, the narrow hallways. Almost blows the door off its hinges. Stalks into the room, raging. Should've killed the woman. Should've split her head open. Should've _ended_ her.

She's useless, like the rest of them. The rest of the world that keeps trying to rid itself of him. His father, his uncle—even his mother wanted the real him gone. He remembers this. Vividly. Remembers how inadequate they've made him feel.

And now, now that he's made himself indestructible for all eternity, they all keep finding ways to keep him hidden, to keep him down, to keep him away.

Well. Except for Claire.

Claire brought him back.

"Close the door," he tells her softly.

She ignores him, lingering in the doorway with a hostile glare.

"I told you to—" he starts, then grits his teeth. Violently, he stretches his hand. Forces her to walk, wrap her fingers around the knob, close the door. Yes. This. He worked hard to control this power. He deserves to use it.

Her eyes follow him with unabashed hatred.

The bonds loosen.

No. That's not right. It doesn't feel right. He wants her to smile at him like she used to. "Claire." Invisible strings gently guide her to the bed. Make her sit down. "Talk to me."

Her fingers curl against her jeans. She remains resolutely quiet.

Frustrated, he clutches his head. Takes a step forward. And another one. Until he's towering above her.

She's watching him with a guarded look. He knows she's hiding things. He should slice her head open.

Instead, he sits next to her. He's tired. And lost. His mind is floating on a sea of memories and feelings and he can't tell which ones are real. Which ones are _his_. He needs something solid. Stable. An anchor.

"Who am I?"

It sounds rhetorical. Claire turns her head slightly, however. Gives him a strange look. A mixture of surprise, loathing, and despair. Still she says nothing.

Furious, he thinks about pinning her to the wall. Torturing the information out of her. His fingers are eager, impatient, disobedient. "Please."

She wavers. Looks away.

"Claire," he murmurs, leaning into her. "I can't—" The phone in his pocket goes off.

He picks it up automatically.

"Hey, where are you?" Peter's voice carries through. "I've been at your place for an hour—"

Claire's focused on the phone. He knows she wants to grab it. Spill their secret to her precious Peter.

"...Nathan?"

"Nathan's not here right now," he drawls. Hangs up. The phone rings again. He liquefies it with a satisfied sneer. There. He knows how to do this, too.

Claire's mouth twists in response.

"Yours," he orders. Off her defiant expression, he scowls. Lightning-fast, he reaches for her. She struggles, draws her knees up, kicks at his hips. An odd thrill courses through him as he wrestles her down onto the bed.

The phone's in her pocket. He knows this.

So why are his fingers straying?

They press into her shirt, below her belly button. One thumb hooks around the hem, curls, drags the material up, skims over bare skin—

"Don't," she warns.

With a start, he pulls away. Scrambles off the bed. His breathing is beyond irregular. His hands want this. His _body_ wants this. There's a distant, tucked away memory: _Adam and Eve at the end of humanity; I want that_.

He strips off his suit jacket. Then the vest. Then his tie, shirt, undershirt. He needs to shed this skin, too, but he likes it. He likes it even if no one else does.

Clothes strewn, he turns to her again. This time, his voice is louder, more demanding. "Who am I?"

Her face is impassive. But he can hear her heart racing. And it excites him. "You know who you are."

His lips curl dangerously. "I need a name."

Her expression is the picture of contempt. "Gabriel."

It's not a lie. "Gabriel what?"

She stands up. She is determination and courage and spirit, but there is fear in her eyes. "Gabriel Gray."

He advances on her. Backs her into a corner. Rests one palm on the wall by her cheek. "Is that who you know me as?"

She bares her teeth. "No."

He lowers his head. Closes his eyes. His lips brush her temple. "Who am I, Claire?"

"_Sylar_."

It feels like home. It flows from his neck, spreads down his arms, coils through his toes. He is Sylar.

And he remembers.

*

She killed him once.

But that was mechanical; tab A into slot B. She didn't plan it for days, didn't obsess about it after. Didn't even think of it as taking a life. Wasn't really thinking, actually. She just did what felt right. Like with Brody.

This is different. This is meticulous, premeditated, _wrong_.

He's asleep on the bed. On his stomach, thin sheets twisted around his ankles. Providing her easy access to his neck.

She sinks deeper into the chair. Her palms are sweaty. The door is unlocked. There are no invisible strings trapping her here. She could run, find a bus in the morning, go home. She could pick up her phone. It's been vibrating for hours.

But Sylar _went to bed_. Dared her into saying his name, smiled, looked at her—really looked at her—and claimed the bed, looking almost serene.

And now he's just lying there. Sleeping. Defenseless.

The metal spike is still in her pocket.

Slowly, she drags herself out of the chair. Tries to control her breathing. Tries not to make noise. Tries not to think about an eternity alone.

Because really, what's the difference, anyway? What would she do with someone for an eternity? Love wouldn't last that long. A friendship may not, either. An obsession would drive her insane. None of this is worth compromising her principles, forgoing revenge, or forgiving him.

Her knees bump against the bed.

She has to do this. They don't need him. _She_ doesn't need him.

She wraps both hands around the metal spike.

If her fingers are shaking, it's because nights in the desert are cold. If her stomach is tight, it's because she hasn't eaten all day. If her eyes are burning, it's because she has to strain to see in the dark.

Do it. She has to do it. He's a killer. Has always been one. Will always—

She brings the spike to the back of his neck. The tip digs into his skin.

For Meredith. For Nathan. For Jackie. For everyone he's ever hurt. For forcing her to face eternity alone.

She drives the spike through his skin. Cringes at the sound. Recoils at the feeling. A few drops of blood bead on his nape. He doesn't move.

So.

That's it. She's done it. He'll never move again. It feels painfully anticlimactic. Sort of incomplete—

His left hand lifts off the sheet, pawing groggily at the spike. His face is buried in the pillow and his voice is casually muffled when he says, "I moved the spot."

Relief surges through her. She ignores it. "Where?"

He turns his face slightly. His teeth glint in the dark. She can hear the smile in his voice: "Care to explore?"

Her cheeks feel oddly warm. "Sylar—"

And then she's on the bed, blinking up at the ceiling. Her body locks up. It's the same feeling she had in that damn hotel room, when he pressed against her on the couch, made promises with every glance and every word he sent her way.

"Last time," he says in a low voice, "I gave you a choice." His hips pin hers down. "Your father or your grandmother." His hand idly brushes her bangs away. "I'm not going to give you a choice this time."

Her heart jumps to her throat. "It's not their fault."

He scowls. "You're lying."

Maybe. "They did the right thing."

His lips curl into a self-deprecating grin. "So did I."

Her jaw clenches. "You killed Nathan."

"I _punished_ him," he replies distantly. His eyes cloud with some strange emotion. "He was hunting us."

"But he changed!" she growls. Her chest constricts. She wants Nathan back. So bad. "People change!"

His hands still. His lips come to hover above hers. "So why is it so hard to believe _I_ can, Claire?"

The rant dies on her lips.

He's not going to change for her. People don't just... well. Perhaps her father changed for her. Both of her fathers. But that's different.

"So what are you going to do?" she asks. The mattress digs into her back. "What's your plan? You're going to kill the President? Kill anyone standing in your way?" Her fingers bunch up the sheets. "And then what, Sylar?"

"I don't know," he says honestly. Catches her off guard. "What are you going to do?"

She pauses, mind blank, then steels her features. "Stop you."

His smile is kind of beautiful.

"You'll try," he says.

"I'll succeed," she promises darkly. Her hand inches across the bed, searching for the discarded spike.

He catches her other wrist. "I should thank you."

Her fingers wrap around the metal.

"For saving me," he murmurs. Traces her face with his fingers. Slips a knee between hers. "Twice."

She jabs the spike beneath his shoulder blade.

He flinches. His eyes darken. "Not there."

Her palm feels sticky with his blood. Her grip is slipping. She slices into his side, nauseous.

He groans into her neck.

She pulls the metal out. Lets it fall to the floor with a soft thump. Wipes her hand on the sheet. What is she doing? Why are her fingers moving to his chest? He must be controlling them. She'd never touch him like this voluntarily.

"Let me thank you," he tells her, voice a low rumble against her collarbone.

Tears prick at her eyes. He's already taken so many of her firsts. She can't let him have this one. "You're going to fail."

He pauses.

"You will never achieve what Nathan could," she continues, willing her voice not to break. "You'll never be half the man he was. Even at his worst, he was better than you could ever be."

She can almost feel the anger radiate off him. His fingers dig into her skin. She expects to be flung against the wall again. But his eyes meet hers.

Her lips part. It's not Sylar's face. It's Nathan's.

He sits up. Drags a hand over his face. Slips his feet to the floor. Leans on his knees. "She was right."

Nathan's features fade into Sylar's.

"Get some sleep," he says. Rises, grabs his shirt, doesn't look at her.

The door shuts behind him.

Claire swallows. Lets out a breath. Curls up on her side. Feels a sharp, needy emptiness in her chest.

The linens seem white in the dawning light. The sheets are rumpled. Stained with blood.

For a moment, it feels like she's lying in a marriage bed.

*

Angela told him never.

She's lied to him before. Often. Somehow, he feels she wasn't manipulating him about this. He could kill her and dream about the future, though. He could kill Parkman and erase everyone's memories. And then what?

He can fly. He can move things with his mind. He can live forever. He's defying physics. He's defying nature. There's nothing left for him to take.

It's pathetic to crave the one thing he can't take by force.

He moves through the market like a shadow for hours. Watches the locals set up stands. Fruit, clothes, trinkets. Eventually, he focuses on a little boy selling toy cars.

"Was that your memory or Nathan's?"

He turns his head slightly. Claire has found him. Again.

"The favorite toy you told me about last time," she amends.

"Mine."

She crouches down and eyes the uneven line of cheap toy cars. Without sparing him a glance, she stretches out her hand and offers him her cell phone. "It's for you."

Reluctant, he takes the phone. A text message pops up.

_They're coming._

It makes sense. GPS tracking, probably. Should've melted her phone. Should've told Peter everything was fine. Should've listened to Angela.

He pockets her phone and crouches down next to her. The toy cars fill his vision. He touches one gently, rolling it across the small stand.

"My mother gave me one of these," he says with too much nostalgia. "My real mother." His lips quirk. "So that I could 'go places.' "

Claire says nothing. She picks a toy ambulance and quietly draws a circle with its tiny wheels.

"I could be Nathan forever," he says.

The ambulance comes to a sudden stop. Her fingers are trembling. Maybe his are, too.

"For you."

The toy fenders bump against each other gently.

"Secure the area!"

It's Parkman's voice.

Sylar inhales. Closes his eyes. Opens them to a market teeming with agents.

"I'll take that as a yes."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes**: Two chapters left!

* * *

*

Twenty seconds.

That's how long she suspects it would take him to kill the agents. All of them.

The fact that he's just crouching next to her, quiet, worries her more than the prospect of a massacre.

She expects an apocalypse, but it happens like this:

Sylar rises first. Meets Matt's eyes. Holds up a hand.

Matt cocks his gun, tilts his head, frowns, and announces: "Stand down!"

Claire blinks. Rises, still clutching the toy ambulance.

The men stand down. Lower their weapons like puppets. She recognizes the zombified lethargy. Feels strangely relieved.

Why? This is it. Her chance to _destroy_ Sylar. Like she wanted.

But it's odd. She was right, yes. There's no man beneath the monster. But there is a _boy_. And she doesn't know what to do about him. With him. For him.

"I can't hold them for long," Matt warns. His forehead shines with a thin layer of sweat. "Make your case, Sylar."

Sylar turns his back to Claire, but she can see the bones shift. The muscles change. The hair shorten. It's Nathan's voice that says: "I'm... building bridges."

Breathing heavily, Matt squints. "He's not lying," he tells Claire as though she needs the reassurance.

She doesn't. She believes Sylar.

So, yeah, the universe must be on the verge of imploding.

"I know." Flustered, she glances at Matt's team. "What are you going to do about—"

With a labored grunt, Matt waves her off, gaze roaming over a sea of blank faces. "I _got_ this." His gun is still raised. His knuckles are white. "Get back to D.C.," he manages. Glances at Sylar. "Your... mother wants to talk to you."

Sylar nods.

Without a word, he offers Claire a hand.

Wary, she accepts, and then they're off, breaking through the gathering clouds.

She waits for a few minutes. Expects him to speak. He doesn't. His body seems cold. Wrong. The way he's touching her is... proper. Polite. Absolutely appropriate.

It pisses her off.

"So," she says loudly, trying to keep her hair out of her eyes, "what's the plan?"

His voice is even. Deliberate. Disinterested. "Plan, Claire?"

Even the way he says her name doesn't sound right. "What happens now?" she growls. "You'll kill Angela? The President—?"

"No," he says at once. "I told you. I'll be Nathan. For you."

Her heart jumps to her throat. He's not doing this for her. _No one_ would do something like—

"Don't use me as an excuse, Sylar."

He says nothing.

The possibilities filter through her mind quickly. Matt could erase his memories again. Maybe the Haitian? Maybe something entirely new? Perhaps Angela's found a way to control him again—a real, lasting solution—

Why isn't any of this making her happy?

She can't answer the question, so she focuses on the wind and the shrinking desert and his steady heartbeat, ticking in time with hers.

When they land in Washington, things are perfectly normal. Security guards wave them through. Aides smile. Pages move out of their way.

And Claire can't _stand_ it.

She pushes past Angela's assistant. Readies for an argument. Prepares to save her grandmother from Sylar.

Or Sylar from her grandmother.

"No, dear," Angela greets her, quickly crossing her office and clasping Claire's shoulder. "Nathan and I need to discuss this alone."

Claire's pretty sure Sylar's not going to allow her to be shooed off like this—

"Go see your father, Claire," he says smoothly. "He's probably out of his mind with worry."

The door closes in her face with a soft click.

Mind blank, Claire stares at it for a long moment. Grows restless. Angry.

She can't decide if she's worried about Angela's safety or Sylar's.

So she reaches for the doorknob. Her fingers touch brass. Her hand pushes down—

And a pair of strong arms wraps around her.

With a blink, she brings her hands up defensively. Pushes against a warm chest. Struggles.

"Don't do that again, Claire-bear."

Her muscles unwind. She sinks against her father. Feels seven years old. "I'm sorry."

Noah sighs into the top of her head, lips pressing against her forehead. "No, you're not."

Her mouth curls a little. Gently, she pushes him away. Grows serious. Confirms: he _knew_. "Dad. What's going on? Why didn't you tell me?"

Noah observes her face. Says tightly, "We can use him." His glasses catch the light. "We _have_ to use him." He draws her closer and starts down the nearest hallway, voice dropping to an authoritative whisper. "We can't risk an all out offensive against the government. We need a man on the inside."

"Won't find a better one than Sylar, I guess," she shrugs. There's no actual bitterness in her voice.

Noah doesn't notice. "I promise you, Claire," he continues. Bores his eyes into hers. "After this is over, I'll find a way—" he crushes her to his chest again, "—to keep that bastard away from you forever."

"Don't—" she catches herself mumbling. Recoils. Her voice is muffled by his shirt, so she hastily composes herself and pastes a cheerful smile. "Where's Peter?"

Noah seems appeased by this. "Waiting."

She doesn't have to ask if Peter knows. There's no way anyone would tell Peter that Nathan is dead. "I'll go... apologize, then?"

Noah nods. Escorts her to the basement. Gives her privacy.

Apprehensive, Claire searches the empty cubicles, squinting at the fluorescent lights. "Peter?"

The area is empty. But there's a rustling by the vending machines. Slowly, she scans the basement. A light flickers, sending chills down her spine.

"Peter?" she rounds a corner, eyes adjusting to the darkness.

"Sorry. Just me."

Startled, Claire lets out a shaky breath. "Sylar."

Sick. She must be sick. It's Sylar. And she's _happy_ to see him.

Her head clears. She rushes toward him. Asks conspiratorially, "What did Angela want?"

Sylar leans against one of the vending machines. Casually unwraps a candy bar. Doesn't meet her eyes. "Same as usual."

Claire frowns. There is no 'usual' with Angela. "What does that—" she mutters, exasperated. "You're telling me she's just going to let you run around as Nathan?"

Sylar's face twitches imperceptibly. "Apparently."

"Why?" Claire presses. Her lips thin. "Is she planning on having Matt erase your memories again?" She balls up her fists. Takes a step into the shadows. The tips of her shoes touch his. "That won't work forever. You _know_ this."

There is a long silence and then, a soft, broken: "I don't know anything, Claire."

Oh, no.

Her heart stops.

"...Peter," she whispers.

Sylar's features slowly shift into Peter's.

Claire doesn't have a word strong enough to describe the look on his face.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asks, desperate.

Her hands reach out instinctively—

—and freeze.

That's not grief on Peter's face. It's murder.

*

Sylar's favorite color is red.

He prefers not to psychoanalyze himself, of course. It's not just blood and love and danger; it's also his first memory of Claire—

No. He has to stop this.

Nathan's favorite color was orange. So. Only a shade off. He can make the adjustment.

"It is difficult, yes," Angela says. Gives his arm a motherly pat. Motions at the recliner by her desk. "Changing, I mean."

Sylar takes his seat. "Electrocution."

Angela rounds her desk slowly, lowering herself into her chair with grace. "I'm sorry?"

"That's how I'd like to kill you right now."

Unconcerned, she inclines her head. "Understandable." She splays her hands over a leather bound planner on the desk. "Change isn't meant to be easy."

"It's not supposed to be impossible," he counters. Sinks in his chair. Grips its armrests.

Angela hesitates. "With the right sort of motivation—"

"I killed your son."

Her face shows only a trace of hurt. "You need a stable environment."

"I slit his throat," he continues, unrepentant. "He didn't die quickly."

Breath quickening, Angela averts her eyes. Her fingers tremble against the leather. "We can provide you with a sense of belonging. A purpose."

"I see," he forces a smirk. "Selective hearing runs in the fa—"

Her palms slam against the desk. "_Sylar_."

Something inside him quiets down. Wants to listen. And obey.

She composes herself. "My son," she says, eyes shining, "was groomed for greatness." She presses two fingers to the pulse point on her neck and pauses. "You took away his chance to become a great man."

Sylar bites down, teeth grinding. "I—"

"This isn't open to debate."

He should kill her. Snap her neck. Toss her out of the window. Slash her throat. Reunite her with her precious Nathan.

But he finds himself watching her carefully instead. Feels apprehensive. Almost hopeful.

"A world without you in it," she admits, "will self-destruct."

A strange new mix of ambition and pride rises within him. Feels strangely like a reset button. A real one, this time.

Back and shoulders perfectly straight, Angela opens the planner. Fixes her eyes on the inked page. "You will meet with Micah Sanders and Tracy Strauss tomorrow morning." Briefly, she glances at him. "You will take their powers. _Nicely_."

She rattles off instructions. Gives him a businesslike nod occasionally. Lowers her voice every so often.

When she is finished, she closes the planner and leans back in her chair. "Questions?"

"Just one."

She raises a groomed eyebrow.

Sylar cracks his neck. Appears disinterested. "What about Claire?"

Angela levels her eyes with his. "I'd like to think I'm doing this for her." She rises delicately. Crosses to the door. Pulls it open. "Go home. Get some sleep." She nods at the curious assistant stationed by the door. "Son."

*

Peter is broken.

And she knows only one person that can fix anything.

The doorman lets her in. Chats her up. Leaves her with a friendly smile. And an empty apartment.

"Where are you?" she mutters. She's not sure if she's talking to Peter or Sylar, but neither answers.

Anxious, she paces the length of the kitchen, then the living room, then the bedroom. She feels cold, then hot, then numb.

Sylar can do this, right? He can pick up the pieces. Figuratively. Literally. He can fix Peter.

The doorknob turns, startling her.

She fidgets. Waits for him to notice her. Doesn't understand the sudden ache coiling deep in her stomach. Can't waste time trying to decipher it.

"I need your help."

Nathan's features fade into Sylar's.

Her heart skips a beat.

He observes her for a long moment. The bedroom is dark and the light from the hallway is making him look unreal. More menacing. Familiar.

It makes her feel safe. Which is ironic, at best.

Slowly, he takes off Nathan's wristwatch. Places it on a nightstand. Unbuttons his rumpled shirt. "With what, Claire?"

He still sounds like Nathan. Fatherly. Courteous. And somehow obnoxious.

"Peter."

His back stiffens. Too casual, he asks, "He found out?"

Claire averts her eyes. Yeah. She needs to stop trapping herself in bedrooms with Sylar. "You have to fix him."

Nathan's old cufflinks plink against the floor. "I can't."

He sounds so distant and detached she wants to push him out the window. "Sylar—"

"_Nathan_," he corrects forcefully.

Her body locks up. "I'm not going to pretend," she hisses. "Even if the whole world decides—"

He slams her against the wall. Presses against her. Bends his neck. Brings his mouth close to hers.

It feels... right.

"As your father..." he drawls. A self-deprecating smirk quirks his lips. "I can't do anything."

She feels her knees buckle. Brings her hands to his wrists. Pleads: "And as Sylar? Can you fix him as Sylar?"

His eyes darken. There is barely enough light for Claire to see anything, but she does see this:

Sylar's gaze is hesitant. Suspicious. A little possessive. "You know what I'll want in exchange."

Claire reminds herself to breathe. "Yes."

He wavers for a moment. Assesses the situation. Seems to consider the pros and cons, then—

—releases her. Steps away. Runs a hand down his face. "Go home. I'll handle Peter." He amends, frustrated, "Pete."

Claire's feet won't move.

She came here to help Peter. She's sure of that. But she thinks—now—what if? What if Sylar's memories are gone by the time they meet again? What if she'll be the only one that remembers Mexico and peanuts and tequila and toy cars? What if—

"Once," she says quietly.

Sylar's brows draw together. "What?"

"One time," she says, possibly to herself. "Once is okay."

She closes the distance, takes a deep breath, braces herself, then—

—kisses him.


	9. Chapter 9

Notes: **mamozombie** and the .ru girls: Спасибо!

This chapter is rated R.

*

Sylar doesn't share.

He doesn't pass on opportunities. He doesn't hesitate. If something is offered to him—or if it is not—he takes it.

He and Nathan have this in common.

There are countless reasons why he should be Nathan right now. To punish Claire, or to comfort her, or to stop her before... this escalates. Because he promised. Because it's wrong. Because he doesn't deserve—

"You're definitely putting the ass in passive-aggressive," she says. Her cheeks are pink, but her gaze is cold.

And he's pretty sure she just kissed him.

"It's wrong, Claire."

A brief flicker of annoyance shadows her face. She falls back on the balls of her feet. Her hands drop to her sides. Her lips thin. "You killed my mother and my father and half the people I know, but kissing me is wrong?"

Yeah. What the hell is wrong with him?

"I told you. I'll be Na—"

She kisses him again. Cups his face. Forces her mouth against his. Tries to coax him into responding.

Stubbornly, he refuses.

She slips her hands to his neck. "I don't want..." she begins, frustrated, then cuts herself off. Threatens: "You'll _do_ this, Sylar."

The temperature drops by twenty degrees.

He planned for this. He thought about it. Often. Eagerly. But it's different. It's not like with Maya, where all he remembers thinking was: I have to hide it, she can't know yet, I need this to _work_.

And it's nothing like it was with Elle. With Elle, he believed: I have to thank her, she changed me, maybe we can do this.

"You said you'd fix everything," Claire reminds him. She brings her thumb to the edge of his collarbone. "Start with this."

He decided in that hotel room: he was going to hunt her down. After Noah was dead. After Peter and Angela and the dog were all rotting six feet under. He was going to lure her into the shadows and fill her with lies before he filled her with pieces of himself. He was going to manipulate and ruin and hide her from the rest of the world. He was going to _win_.

...that was the plan.

"You should respect your elders," he tells her darkly. His hands are done obeying. His fingers are ready. His lips are impatient. "Don't speak to me like that again."

She hesitates for a moment.

Too late.

He promised he'd fix things. He's never lied to Claire. He's not going to start now.

"Wait," she gasps.

His hands wrap around her wrists. Tug. Push.

Her back hits the mattress. Her hair spills across his pillow, settles. "Sylar—"

He looms over the bed. Feels the smirk rise, unbidden.

So, that was the plan. Before he thought about her future. Before he worried about her grades and her happiness and her smile. Before he discovered that she could love him.

As Nathan.

"I'm greedier," he says, voice low. Automatically, he unbuckles his belt. Slips it through the loops. Observes for a long moment. It would look good binding her wrists—

"Greedier than me?" she asks with slight confusion, chest rising rapidly.

He drops the belt. It thumps onto the covers, slinks to the floor, smacks his shoes. He toes them off. "Than Nathan."

Her lips part softly.

So. She wants this. She wants to be touched by his hands. As unclean as they are.

He shrugs out of his shirt, undershirt, a layer of skin. "And I'll hurt you."

Surprisingly, Claire fixes her eyes on his, unamused. "Let me guess," she grumbles. "You'll talk me to death."

He shouldn't be smiling. "Claire—"

She's on her knees in a heartbeat. The linens shift around her. She sinks deeper into the mattress, reaches out, presses her palms against his chest. Seems surprised to find his heart racing madly.

"You won't talk me out of this," she warns. Unsteady, her fingers slide down his sides. "I don't know what I'm doing or _why_, but—"

His lips press against her throat. He leans and pushes until she falls over. She stills beneath him. Meticulous, he starts by removing her shirt.

This is like fixing a watch. Discarding the embellishments to reveal the broken gears. He's never done it quite like this before, of course.

She says nothing, so he brings his mouth to the swell of her breast. Her heart hammers away, perfectly in tune with his. So he removes her bra. Looks for signs of imperfection to fix. Finds none, drags his fingers lower, slips them around the waistband of her pants.

Her breath catches loudly.

He grins into the hollow of her throat.

Her knees spread with a slow sort of grace and he nestles between them. Yeah. There's nothing wrong about the way he fits there.

A sudden need tightens his muscles. He takes off her shoes and her socks, slides off her pants, drags his thumb over her panties—

"You're not going to call out your own name, right?" she asks shakily.

His hands freeze. "What?"

Her fingers skim down his back, almost too boldly. "You know. After."

Unguarded, he's an easy target. She wraps one leg around his thighs. Gains leverage. Pushes him off. Throws him down. Straddles his hips.

"Because you like yourself so much," she clarifies with a pant. Digs her palms into his chest. Cuts into his skin with short, blunt nails.

A low, coiling ache hardens his body. This. This is why he likes her. Because she rushes into the unknown, into the dangerous, head-first. Stupidly. Wholeheartedly.

"I like you more," he replies casually.

She pauses. Her cheeks darken. "Don't get the wrong idea, Sylar," she says sharply. Unbuttons, unzips his pants. He lifts his hips to help her slide them off. "This is an exchange. Not a relationship."

He should be unhappy to hear this. He should react accordingly.

But his temples are throbbing.

"I think," he says with a smirk, "this is my favorite ability."

She moves up his body. Her panties press against his briefs. "Which one...?" Her eyes widen adorably. "Wait, I'm not lying—"

A pleasant tingle spreads from his temples, down his neck, below his navel. He hardens against her. Wet warmth seeps through in response. She rolls her hips a little, reevaluates the situation, keeps her mouth shut tightly.

Fine. If she won't talk, he'll make her cry out.

His hands lash out, grab her hips, hold her in place. Their eyes meet. There is nothing broken about her. There's nothing for him to fix. So why—

Trembling, her fingers disappear down his briefs.

His breath catches.

Oh.

Her fingers wrap around him. Inexpertly, timidly, a little angrily—

Right. _She's_ fixing _him_.

Incredulous and stupidly hopeful, he palms the curve of her ass. Concentrates. Disintegrates her panties, and his briefs, and leaves nothing but burning skin on skin. "Second favorite ability."

Even her voice is shaky when she mumbles, "Gives new meaning to panty-melting..."

His lips curl. The grin dies quickly. She's guiding him in and he's not sure this is a good idea.

Once isn't going to be enough.

*

She's done stupid things before.

Technically, she's committed suicide a few dozen times. She's put her family in harm's way on more than one occasion. She picked Brody over Zack in seventh grade. But this?

This is _insane_.

_This_ will give her father a coronary and her mother an aneurysm. This will change the way she thinks about herself—and him—forever.

His back arches off the mattress. He pushes deeper inside her. Stretches her. Reminds her briefly that she used to think: he's already taken so many of my firsts. I can let him have this one.

She clamps down on him, hard.

She's betraying Nathan and Noah and herself. She's not doing this for Peter. She's not doing this out of fear or spite. She's not even doing it because she's sick of sounding like a broken record.

She's doing it because it feels right.

It should be messy and painful and fast. It's none of those things. She should be mortified, surprised, fumbling. She is none of those things. So this can't be wrong.

His fingers twist in her curls. His thumb is rubbing small circles. And she's coming undone—

"Don't say your own name," he murmurs, moving beneath her.

Laughter bubbles up in her throat.

Yeah, she's going to regret this in the morning. She's going to have trouble looking in the mirror. She's going to hate herself. But for now—

"Sylar."

He twitches. Forces her to go faster. Brings her so close to the edge she has to let him take over.

"Sylar," she repeats. He flips her over with a tiny growl. Her head slams against the bed frame. "Sylar—"

Slowly, her arms and legs wrap around him, tighten instinctively, urge him in deeper.

Her muscles contract, and all she can think about is lying on a table back in California with the top of her head sliced off. About him seeing _everything_ that's wrong with her and still wanting to spend eternity together.

Seriously, she was pretty sure that would remain their most intimate moment. But right now, he's rubbing against her on every stroke in a way that makes her forget. In a way that makes her climb higher and spill over and—

This is going to be a problem.

She could get used to _this_.

*

"That was very... vanilla," she complains. Her voice is half-muffled by the pillow. "You even kept your socks on."

He bites back a smirk, hands splayed behind his head.

She scoots further away. Curls on her side. "Not that I expected ceiling suspension and bear traps, but... you know."

He focuses on the ceiling. "I'm surprisingly simple, Claire."

She's quiet for a long time. Then: "Yeah."

She falls asleep by his side. Sort of. The bed is large, and the distance between them is regretfully noticeable. But it's okay. She's staying.

And he can do this.

He can do the right thing. As Sylar. He couldn't do it for Virginia and Elle, but perhaps he can do it for Angela and Claire.

He can get up in the morning and put on a suit. He can meet with Micah and Tracy. He can save his people. He can be a good man.

And then, one day, maybe he'll be able to come home. To Claire.

He covers his face with his arm. Groans. Peeks at Claire's sleeping back. Wants to move closer and slip his fingers between her thighs.

"Don't move."

Sylar pauses, frowning.

The voice is quiet. Familiar. Menacing. "Get up."

On guard, Sylar props himself up on his elbows. The sheets tangle around his waist.

Two silhouettes darken the bedroom's threshold in silence.

Sylar sits up quickly. His eyebrows draw together. He stretches out a hand to slam the door shut. Nothing happens.

Yeah, he thinks.

There are only two people capable of—or willing to—go against him.

Peter and the Haitian.


End file.
